Down to Earth
by Powered by 23 Kicks
Summary: When a sexy Greek Muse becomes entranced with the human painter girl he's sent to inspire, is it because their love story could be more timeless than it seems? Twilight faces off with Mt. Olympus in a battle of fate vs. destiny.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter summary:** In the movie Xanadu, the Muse Kira and her sisters spring to life right off of an art mural painted on the side of a building. This is the concert version.

**Disclaimer-times-three: **The Twilight characters don't belong to me, nor does the Xanadu plot line. And this is totally a rip-off of Xanadu, only there's no roller skating. And the title, _Down to Earth? _Xanadu's plot was inspired by this 1947 musical.

**Acknowledgements: **lotus11 is my lovely pre-reader.

**A/N: **In Greek mythology, The Nine Muses of the Arts are female, but who's to say a muse born of two gods can't appear on Earth in whatever form they choose? So for my story, Terpsichore, the Muse of Dance, will be _male_.

Oh, how I love playing God.

* * *

**Down to Earth**

The beat of the music starts at my toes and climb s my legs like vines, drawing tight and going deep. I've never felt anything like it before. My heart is racing and my breathing is uneven, and the show hasn't even started yet.

"What is this music?" I ask Alice.

She does this weird nod-shake of her head because apparently she doesn't know what it is either.

Alice's job as a talent scout for Eclipse Promotions has perks. Over the years, she's seen everything and everyone from U2 to Muse, The Price is Right to Ellen Degeneres, Cirque du Soleil to Dancing with the Stars, and private movie screenings with the actors themselves.

Tonight it's an unknown all-male vocal and dance group of improvisationists called Good Myth at The Greek Theater. It's a one-time-only performance, so tickets were outrageously priced. Alice is here to see if Good Myth warrants more than one performance, and if so, to see if they might be persuaded to sign with Eclipse Promotions.

So far? They seem damn promising.

Onstage, a lone silhouette appears on a raised platform, motionless as a statue. The huge projection screens situated at each end of the stage remain blank. Apparently we are only supposed to see his silhouette for now.

The beat of the music pulses and the longer he stands still, the more restless I feel. I'm sitting on the edge of my seat, all because he just won't move with the music and I _need _him to, so I can breathe. So I can relax.

He gives me his voice first, a low timbered sound that climbs to a slow crescendo, until my throat goes tight and dry. As his voice rises, so do his arms. My fingernails dig into the palms of my hands, and chills are racing up and down my body. He is singing without words, and the sound of his voice is just as powerfully evocative as any instrument. Maybe even more.

The stage bursts into color with neon violet light and I finally see that he's not even facing me, that he has his back to the audience. Dressed neck-to-foot in a black cat suit, the light behind him makes his body appear in stark contrast. Tall, slim, well-formed, he turns suddenly, the movement all liquid. I feel a definite shift in the air around me as everyone inhales simultaneously.

The violet light is shooting like lasers from his eyes and mouth as he holds the last note of sound, and he reminds me of Agent Smith from The Matrix just before Smith's body explodes into light. And he must be on some kind of pulley because he's rising higher above the stage now, and I'm lost and gone and enthralled. Like a finale in its power, if this beginning only gets better, the performance is going to kill me.

My neck is beginning to ache from staring up at him when he drops from what seems like an impossible length to the stage, landing in a crouch on one leg with the other held out to the side in a dramatic balance stance. He holds the pose, as if giving me the time I need to really see him. A headband mic sits over his unruly, penny-colored hair so he can sing and dance freely, but his voice is silent now as a chorus of others repeat his call in softer intensity.

His face is unreal, like an angel who's been made mortal. Thick eyebrows slant over heavy-lidded eyes, his high cheekbones visibly flushed with exertion, mouth curving in an erotic half-smile, nose slightly flaring with each breath. But it's his open, glowing expression of humor and joy that sends my heart into double-time. He is not just beautiful, he _radiates _it from the inside out. And until this moment, I'd never seen anyone that made me think of Adonis. There is beauty … and then there is him.

He's rewriting my reality with his soft, stunning gaze that bathes me in warmth, even though I'm already overheated. Every inch of me bubbles like peach cobbler fresh from the oven. I want to blink or look away, but I'm the motionless statue now. Inside I'm dizzy with desire and confusion, not at home in my skin anymore, and I'm not a lit bit little scared. No, I'm terrified by the power of his gaze and what it makes me feel.

The music morphs into another eerie melody with fast drums and then he's up, and I gasp in relief and disappointment from the release of his gaze.

This isn't real, it's just an emotionally powerful performance. I've felt suppressed lately by my going-nowhere job, worries about Charlie's declining health, and the fear that I'm never going to make it as a painter. I needed an escape tonight. That's all this is. I need to calm down.

Adonis is moving simultaneously with others who are rising up on stage now. I'm not sure what kind of dance it is, but it looks like a combination of karate, hip-hop and robotic. Only it's not, because I'm pretty sure this is a form of dance I've never seen before. They are all fluid grace as their bodies contort into impossible positions, using their legs, arms and hands-and sometimes each other-in their kinetic movements. It would be mime-like if they weren't in perpetual motion. And just as I have that thought, they go completely still in the middle of a move, every one of them.

The music stops and the theater is heavy with silence.

From where I sit in section A, row five, it looks like Adonis is staring right at me. Or he would be if he was human, which he does not appear to be in this moment. His body has gone solid, his face is expressionless, and his eyes are even clouded over. It's freaky and unusual, but he is a perfect representation of a statue. I shiver and wonder how on earth he's doing it because it doesn't seem possible.

"Ho. Lee. _Cow_," Alice whispers beside me. We grip each other's hand as the tension mounts.

And they hold it, hold it, _hold_ it, until the piped-in sound of crickets can be heard. Only then, in the silence, do they break slowly into movement again. They're stiff, seemingly trying to relearn how to move, and getting better fast. When the music begins, a thunderous roar of their victory fills the stadium as their bodies become liquid conduits again.

I fall back against my seat as the audience goes crazy. People are standing, screaming, jumping and whistling. Like it's alive and sitting beside me, I feel the audience's frenetic energy. Two girls rush the stage, and other girls follow. It's pandemonium. Alice and I trade looks of excited astonishment. When security guards haul the girls away, the security line has spread out across the front of the stage to face us with grim expressions. I hadn't even realized they were there to begin with.

The performers take no notice of the audience. Never missing a move or a beat, their voices rise again, one at a time until all six, seven, eight, nine of them, are singing without words. The tone of their voices make me crazy and sad with their beauty and my eyes are suddenly full of tears. The singers drown out the audience, who eventually shuts up to listen. How they can sing and move the way they do at the same time is unbelievable. It blows my mind. These guys are uncharacteristically cohesive for a group-they move like they are all being pulled by the same string, never once out of step. It's uncanny.

My focus never shifts from Adonis, even though it's clear now that they are equal participants. They are dressed alike and are of the same height and build, and it should be difficult to tell one apart from another. But in my mind, he's different. He's more. And if it's just my imagination that his eyes seem to seek out mine, I don't want to know.

A minute or an hour later, the show ends with just the instrument of their voices, the sounds resonant with energy, joy and gratitude. His voice, because I think that I somehow know his voice, is the last one to echo through the auditorium. As the dancers go utterly still again, deaf to the screams of adulation and applause, the stage erupts with a loud boom. A burst of violet light and thick smoke obscure the performers. When it fades, they're gone.

I don't move. I sit there and blink, laughing and choking on my tears because my brain is all a-slosh.

There's a pink tissue in front of my face. "You are _so _glad you came," Alice says smugly.

I blow my nose and nod. I can't talk at the moment, but that's probably a good thing.

I feel bereft as we exit the auditorium, and a little displaced.

"You're supposed to be happy," Alice says. "That was a kick ass show, Bella. It's okay to admit you loved it."

That she doesn't seem to share the same feelings as I do takes me by surprise. "I feel … different somehow," I tell her. "Like my world has been altered."

"Altered how?"

Like I've just lost something I never knew I wanted or needed, something precious. "I'm not sure."

People keep bumping into me because I'm stumbling like a sleepwalker, so Alice hooks my arm with hers. "You're feeling the adrenalin of a good performance, I think," she winks at me. "Let's go get drinks and talk about it."

"I don't know," I say. "I'm kind of out of it, if you haven't noticed."

"Come on, Bella. One drink at The Blue Rose isn't going to hurt you. You need to unwind, right? Come down from that high? I'm your gal."

I sigh. "You're driving, so I guess I'm going where you are. But I don't see why we can't just go home and have a cocktail while sitting on the balcony."

"It's not the same," says the girl who's an extrovert through-and-through.

The Blue Rose is a bar off North Venice Boulevard, and when we aren't wearing heels, is easily within walking distance of the house where Alice and I live on Carroll Canal. It's early for the beach crowd, not even eleven o'clock, so the place isn't packed yet. But in another hour or so, it will be elbow-to-elbow, so I plan to make fast work of my drink.

Muse's _Madness _is playing in the background, and it describes how I'm feeling perfectly. Which is odd and ironic and definitely mad. This night seems like something out of a dream.

Alice fingers her dangly earring and gives me a penetrating look. "So, you really liked them, didn't you?"

"The show?" I take a breath and feel like I'm breathing helium. "I _loved _them, Alice. I hope you get them to agree to sign with Eclipse. Do you think you will? Do you think you'll get to meet the lead performer?"

She's laughing before I finish, because I'm _so _not the type to gush.

"After I report the audience's reaction, I don't think it'll be difficult to interest Eclipse. I have you as a great example: a quiet, shy, hard-to-excite woman who was moved to tears."

I put my elbow on the table and my chin into the palm of my hand. "You weren't?"

She gives me her gamin smile. "I was moved, all right, but it was more … down low. That blond guy? _Hot._ Actually, all of them are hot. They're going to set the female race—hell, the whole human race—on fire. If I can get them, I'm going to make some serious bank."

"I guess I should feel bad, but I didn't notice anyone other than the copper-haired lead performer," I say.

She shrugs. "I imagine everyone will have their favorites."

Just beyond Alice's burgundy blouse, I see a flash of copper and do a double-take. It's just a girl, though, who happens to have the lead performer's colored hair. It's long and beautiful and fills me with a pang because for one crazy second, I thought it might be him.

This isn't like me. I'm slow to make friends, slow to fall for guys in general. By the end of our relationship, James had me convinced that I was a cold prude. And in high school, kissing Jacob had felt like kissing a fish—he was all wet mouth. I just didn't have good luck with dating. More, I just wasn't interested. Most of my passion was spent on the canvas, I guess.

I worked in the accounting department of a furniture manufacturer, but my dream was to have a gallery showing one day. Sometimes it really got me down that it hadn't happened yet. In college, everyone told me I was so talented, brilliant even. I'd even sold a couple of paintings, and had a couple of great reviews.

But none of it came close to paying my rent. A sweeping success, I wasn't, and it sucked. It made painting difficult; sometimes every stroke of the brush felt like a lie to me. I was supposed to create because I couldn't _not._ As a result, I hadn't painted just for myself in a long time—it was always with the idea that someone would pay for the end product. To a real artist, money is never supposed to be a factor.

As the years passed, it was becoming more difficult to share a piece of my soul on canvas, and it felt like I was losing what little I had in the process. Maybe I was only destined for the occasional sale down on the Ocean Front Walk at Santa Monica Beach. Most people just looked, but they were always complimentary. Eventually, maybe it would be enough for me.

But the pit in my stomach was getting wider.

As we leave The Blue Rose, I swear that for a second, their neon blue logo flashes violet.

A week later, Alice still hasn't been able to get Good Myth signed with Eclipse. She hasn't been able to _find _them.

It's like they've just disappeared.

And it's a toss-up about who's more disappointed about that: me or her.

**. . .**

I'm out on the balcony at seven a.m. staring at the canal when I see it—a flash of copper moving down the walkway maybe a hundred or so feet away. It's Wednesday, Alice is away on another scouting trip, and like usual, I'm feeling restless and unable to paint.

And there is a copper-haired someone jogging my way. A tall male. I nearly fall off the edge of the wooden balcony, I'm leaning so far over.

My eyes track his progress as he runs. His steps are steady, eating the space easily, arms loose at his sides. He makes the black wife beater and black track shorts he wears look scandalous against his white skin and copper hair.

As he draws closer, I realize I'm panting. My god, I think I'm losing my mind. I don't even know if it's him_. _It's probably not. But no matter how much I blink the closer he comes, the more I become absolutely certain that it _is_ him.

The lead performer of Good Myth is running along one of the Venice canal walkways where I live. It's impossible. I mean, this can't be happening, can it?

But it is. Because it's him.

His eyes, which are green, are like lasers. As they raise to meet mine, they steal what little breath I have, and I flinch back from the railing with a gasp.

I stumble backwards and fall onto one of the Adirondack chairs with a huff. My face is hot against my hands. He's probably used to being stared at like I just did to him, but for me to do it during his alone time while he's jogging first thing in the morning? Not that there's anything wrong with looking, but he _caught _me and I feel like I've been rude.

When enough time has gone by that I think he has passed below, I jump up and look over the balcony again … and nearly swallow my tongue. He's standing there, a god dressed all in black again. He's right below my balcony with his hands on his hips. And he's got a killer smile aimed up at me.

"Good morning, Bella," he says.

At first, I only hear the tone of his voice. It's as silky smooth and distinctive as I remembered, and sends a thrill through my body. But then the fact that he called me by my name hits me, and I gape down at him.

His eyes twinkle, actually _twinkle _as if he's holding in the best secret. He was breathtaking on stage, but now, only ten feet below me, he's lethal. I've never seen such a good looking man, never thought someone's outward appearance could have such a powerful effect on my behavior. It's ridiculous. It's embarrassing.

But that smile. Those eyes. His magnetism radiates off his skin and stings my own.

"How do you know my name?" I finally eek out.

"I'm your new neighbor," he says and tilts his head at the place on my right.

It's the last thing I expect him to say, and it's almost impossible to come up with a response. "Do you … do you know all of our names, then?"

Because there's no reason why he should know mine, none at all.

"No," he says simply. "Just yours."

_Just mine?_

"What? How?" I sputter as my heart starts banging in my chest. "Why?"

"I thought you were a painter, not a journalist," he laughs. "See you later, Bella."

And then he takes off in a sprint, running impossibly fast, and his feet leave behind neon violet sparks.

_What the?_

Stunned, I stare open-mouthed after him and wonder if I'm dreaming.

**. . .**

**This won't be a long story, maybe 12 to 15 chapters. Updates will be once a week or more. Depends on the muse, hah, hah, hah.**

**Any Xanadu fans here? I know the movie's awful, but when I saw it as a kid, I was absolutely enthralled and asked Mom to buy me a pair of white roller skates. I wore them with purple leg warmers.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter summary:** He can't just knock me off of my feet without letting me get to know him.

**Acknowledgements: **lotus11 is my pre-reader, and BelleBiter is my unexpected, yet totally kick-ass, beta extraordinaire.

**A/N: **Xanadu used to be a real place—it's called Beijing now. But in my mind, Xanadu is inspired by the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem: it's like something out of a dream with otherworldly beings where anything is possible.

And now one of those otherworldly beings is in Bella's world.

* * *

If it's not too hot, and if it's not raining, I eat my lunch outside on the steps that surround the fountain. I work in the design district, where even the buildings and the grounds they are built on are works of art themselves. The fountain I'm sitting near now is often where celebrities come for their after-award interviews. When events like that happen, the fountain is off limits to the public and to the building's employees.

There are no upcoming functions today, so for me, it's tuna salad on wheat while a gentle breeze brings the scent of water. There's only a handful of people sitting around the water, and it's quiet, almost like an oasis. All I need now is a blanket and some SPF 15. It's perfect.

It's going to make having to go back to the office hard.

I'm mesmerized by the sunlight glinting off the water as it sprays high into the air. I've tried to paint it before, tried to capture the sunlight as it peeked through water, tried to let go and recreate the feeling. But for some reason, I have trouble letting go. And when I finish such a painting, it shows. What should look like free and joyous movement ends up looking stiff and sad to me.

I sigh and take another bite of my sandwich. Maybe I should just stick with creating caricature portraits while camped on the strip. People loved them. Even though it is the age of the digital selfie, people payfor painted cartoon portraits of themselves and their loved ones. It didn't make sense to me, but maybe I needed to stop thinking that way and just get with the program al—

"A dollar for your thoughts," Adonis says, and drops down beside me on the step. He even tucks a dollar bill into the space between my thumb and the sandwich I'm holding.

I forget to chew as I openly admire him. He's wearing black slacks, a dark green button down shirt, and a black tie with thin green swirls. The breeze is ruffling his hair; it glints like fire in the sunlight. He's gorrrrrrgeous.

"You're here?" I gasp and swallow my food with a hard gulp.

"I'm here," he smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Oh my god, he's got a little dimple at the side of his mouth.

_Quick, look away._

I grab the dollar bill with my free hand, then try to give it back to him.

"No, it's payment for sharing your thoughts with me," he insists. So I hold it. Like an idiot.

He's got a bagged lunch of his own, although he's not bothering with it. He's just… looking and smiling at me like he's so glad to find me, like I'm the only person in the world for him.

I feel myself leaning toward him, and then jerk back in surprise. He notices, of course, but doesn't say anything.

"Wha-why are you here?" I ask.

He raises the bag in his hand. "Lunch time."

"No, I mean, why are you _here?_" I try to clarify. "With me? Are you… following me?"

My heart pounds at the idea of him following me. But why would he be following me?

"I work here," he says and tilts his head at the building behind the fountain.

"I thought you were a performer," I say and return my uneaten bit of tuna sandwich to my bag. I won't be able to chew another bite if he continues to look at me the way he is with those chameleo's eyes. I'm barely functioning as it is.

"I am," he says. "I'm many things, though."

Is he also a stalker? Because if he is, shouldn't he be dressed more casually? And if he _is _stalking me, I shouldn't be feeling the way I do, all breathless and warm and fascinated. What's _wrong_ with me?

He finally drops his gaze and turns his attention to his own lunch, which is a ridiculous relief because even his eyes alone somehow scramble my brain. I watch his long fingers as they unwrap a sandwich. It looks like peanut butter and jelly. When he takes a bite, his eyes turn back to me, and I think I see surprise there.

"Wow. This is good," he says with a full mouth, and his tone is one of astonishment. Now he looks like a boy.

"You've never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before?"

"Never," he says, and takes another huge bite, even though he's not finished chewing his first one.

What kind of person has never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before?

"Who are you?" I breathe.

He finishes the bite in his mouth, closing his eyes as if he's really enjoying himself, and then turns to face me fully.

"You can call me E," he says.

"_E?"_

"E. Short for… terp-sick-eree."

_Say what?_

"What?"

"It's my name," he says, and winks at me. "But just call me E."

I shake my head. His sudden appearance, his eyes, his… name… all of this is bewildering the heck out of me.

"Okay, _E_," I say and focus on the fountain. "Why are you here now, with me, and not off performing in Las Vegas or Miami or someplace like Madison Square Garden? And how do you know my name?"

He's chewing again, so he holds up a long fingered hand in the universal sign for _give me a minute. _I see that the sandwich that would have taken several bites for me to finish is being devoured by him in only four.

"I'm here for you, Bella," he says a moment later, and the carefree look on his face morphs into something serious. "And I know your name because I'm supposed to know it."

My mind goes blank. "I don't understand," I say weakly.

He looks away from me and his profile is perfect. His jaw is a thing of beauty, even as he chews. "I'm sorry, but I really can't tell you anything more than I have already."

Well, that's not acceptable.

"But you haven't told me anything. _I'm supposed to know your name_," I imitate his deep tone. "All you've done is given me cryptic non-answers after showing up in unexpected places. _Are _you stalking me?"

His thick-lashed eyes are both mischievous and evil. "If I was, why would I admit to it? You do yourself a great disservice in even asking." And then he looks fascinated by something he sees on my face. "Your nostrils are flaring."

"That's because I'm upset," I growl.

"Great," he says with a chuckle. "Expressing emotions is healthy."

I feel like dumping my bottle of water on his beautiful head.

"Is this some kind of joke? Did Alice send you?"

Alice is always trying to get me to date. She knows people who are aspiring actors, and this just might be some elaborate blind date… joke. Maybe she _found _his group, told him I liked him, and somehow, some way, convinced him to…

But that doesn't make sense. He's a performer. A damn good one, at that. He's got fans. He's good looking. He's _got _to have a girlfriend, and even if he didn't, he's not going to be so hard up for one that he'd agree to a stranger's madcap hook-up plan for her girlfriend. He shouldn't even _be _here, no matter what he says.

He's silent, having watched me as I went through the least likely – and most probable scenarios, knowing Alice - in my head. He's even got his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin cupped in the palm of his hand.

"What are you doing?" I huff.

"Well," he drawls, his tone like silk, "I'm thinking that a dollar for your thoughts isn't going to be enough."

"You're playing with me," I tell him. "And I don't like it."

He straightens with a look of alarm on his face. "I'm not, Bella. This isn't a joke, and I don't know Alice. I'm not playing."

My grip on my lunch bag is so tight that the strap is biting into my fingers. If he's not here because of Alice, then why is he here? Why won't he tell me? It doesn't make any damn sense for him to be _here for me_.

"Well, I'm not playing, either," I say and stand. If he won't give me any answers, I'm leaving.

I think. And thought I meant it. But I don't want to.

He stands with me, surprising the heck out of me. He's tall - he must be six-foot-two. When I take a step back, he makes a move to stop me. For one second, I lose my mind: I want him to touch me.

And then I don't, because I remember that I don't know who he is or what he wants.

"Don't be scared," he says, and lowers his arm. He seems surprised himself, like he didn't mean to try and touch me.

"I'm not," I lie.

There are other people here. They're watching us, probably sensing drama. I can feel my shoulders start to hunch. I hate being at the center of attention.

"Come meet me tonight," he says suddenly. "I'll be down at the pier."

I shake my head and scoff. "I don't go to the pier."

"I hope you do tonight," he says lowly, and I get the sense that he's studying me and my reactions carefully. It immediately makes me go hot and cold.

"I like to people watch. To sketch."

I gape at him. "You _draw?"_

He shrugs and grins, and I want to swoon.

He sings, he dances, he draws. "You're kind of intimidating," I admit, and take another step away from him. "People who are good at everything just depress me, you know."

And he still scares me at little. He makes me feel too much, and much too soon.

"I didn't say I _knew_ how to draw," he says as the steps between us widen.

"Do you?"

"Come and see."

"When?" I ask, although I'm not committing to anything.

"Whenever," he says. "I'll wait for you."

He'll _what?_

This is crazy. He's crazy.

"Don't wait," I say. "I probably won't come."

I'd be crazy to even think of going.

"I'm going to wait," he says. "Don't disappoint me, Bella."

I narrow my eyes at him. "If I come, will you answer one of my questions honestly?"

He narrows his eyes back at me, and a chill races up my back. "Depends which question," he says.

"Why?"

He shoves his hands into his pants pockets and lowers his head. Then he sighs and raises his gaze to mine. "Because there are some questions I can't answer."

"Can't or won't?" I press. Why is he being so evasive?

"Both. Are you always this persistent?"

"When there's an obvious mystery in front of me, _yes_," I say. "Are we going to have a problem with that?"

He cocks his head as if he's listening for something. "No. I don't think so." And then he flashes one of his knee-weakening smiles at me. "I'll see you tonight, Bella."

He's leaving?

"Wait!" I say to his back.

He spins to face me with a crooked grin and a raised eyebrow. "Yes?"

"At least tell me where you work."

_So I can find you._

But he's shaking his head before I'm finished speaking. "It's a secret."

"Everything's a secret with you," I say.

"With good reason," he says, and there's a dark look in his eyes that takes me aback.

And then he's tapping the back of his wrist, and I suddenly realize I've probably gone past my lunch hour.

"Crap!" I dig for my cell phone and see that I'm ten minutes late. When I glance back up, he's gone.

I turn this way and that to try and see a glimpse of shining, copper hair, a tall figure dressed in black, but there's nothing. Just the fountain, the low bushes, and the sun in my eyes. My heart drops to my stomach.

He's gone.

But people are still sitting on the steps.

"Where did he go?" I ask one of the girls who was watching our interaction, but she just shakes her head and shrugs.

And I'm bereft. How on earth could a drop dead gorgeous man just up and disappear without anyone noticing?

Either that, or she's just not telling me.

"I'm pretty sure he's gay," I say and walk away.

**. . .**

He's all I think about for the rest of the day.

In between putting together numbers for budgets, I remember the way the sun glinted on his hair; while waiting for the program I need to open, I hear the warm tone of his voice as he said my name; and I don't see the monitor in front of me, I see the curve of his smile and feel butterflies in my stomach just remembering the power of it.

I am captivated by him, and I think he somehow knows it. He seems like he expects it, but not in an arrogant way.

Yet he is a stranger to me.

And he is lying to me by omission.

For my sanity, I should probably just forget him.

Yeah. Right.

**. . .**

All the way up to six thirty, I tell myself that I'm not going to the Santa Monica Pier. I'm going to finish the sunflower painting, have a glass of wine, and maybe soak in the tub. Anything but troll a notorious tourist spot, just because a beautiful man all but dared me to.

But once the clock hits six thirty-one, my leg starts twitching. So I get up and notice that I'm pacing the living room. Then, as my restlessness increases, I decide I'm going to go out for a jog. Nothing wrong with that.

I change into a pair of running shorts and a loose t-shirt, and brush my hair back into a ponytail. Then I grab my purse and keys on the way out the door, just in case.

I clomp down the stairs to the alley behind the house. There's a one-car garage and a carport, which is where my Civic is parked. Then I stop and stand there beside my car and stare at myself in the driver's side window. My mouth, like usual lately, is slightly open.

"Idiot," I grumble, and bring my hands to the top of my head. My purse bangs against my shoulder and my keys clank into my ear, as I turn away from the car and look up at the sky.

Then I notice the house beside next to ours. It's green, like his eyes. Is that where he lives?

As I'm staring, the back door opens and a young blond girls exits. She's wearing a pair of black gladiator sandals that look great against her skin. And she's lovely.

"Excuse me," I say, and she turns to me with a cautious look on her face. I lower my keys and purse and sigh.

"Is there … by any chance, is there a copper-haired guy who lives in your building? Calls himself E?"

"This is my family's house. It's just us blonds," she says with a smirk, and then hops into her jeep.

I fall against my car door in disappointment and watch her drive away. The road is quiet again, and I'm alone with my chaotic thoughts.

I should go running now. I should go put my purse back in the house, then go on the run that I planned on. And I turn to do just that, only I turn the wrong way and now I'm facing the damn car again.

Fine. I'll just go then. I'll take a quick peek, that's all.

I'm lucky and find free parking on the street not too far from the pier. It must be a sign that I'm meant to be here, right? With that in mind, I climb out of the car and sling my purse diagonally across my chest. I see the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster in the distance. And then I'm jogging down Colorado Avenue, and my purse is banging against my hip, and my heart is banging harder than it should be.

"I knew you'd come," he says.

His voice is behind me. He's behind me.

I'm almost at the mid-way point. I'm out of breath because I don't run that often, and because he—_again_—has taken me by surprise.

"Am I ever going to get to surprise you?" I gasp.

He's wearing black running shorts and a t-shirt just like me, only on him, the relaxed clothing looks sinful. His legs are long and well-muscled, and his _arms_. God, his arms look bitable. And like they'd give the best kind of hug.

"You've already taken me by surprise," he says, and shoves a hand through the waves on his head. He's not even out of breath.

I lean against the railing and stare at the Ferris wheel, which is glinting colorfully in the sun. I have to get used to looking at him again in small doses so he doesn't cause me brain burn.

"How? How have I taken _you_ by surprise?"

After a few beats of silence, he leans on the railing beside me. I stare at his forearms and think they're sexy, too.

Clearly, I need help.

"The performance," he says. "I saw you. I couldn't look away from your eyes."

My breath stops. Is he telling me something real?

"And… that's unusual?"

He laughs once. It sounds almost biting. "Very. I don't usually notice one person over another. The… performance is supposed to be all consuming, even for me. I'm not supposed to see the watchers."

So far, he's not doing anything to slow down my heart rate.

"The watchers?" I ask. What a strange way to refer to the audience.

"You," he says and turns to me, and he looks puzzled. "_You_. The watcher? But you turned me into a watcher, too."

"Oh," I say.

He's watching me now, making me all kinds of squirmy.

"Stop looking at me," I tell him and look away from those eyes.

"That's just it. I can't," he says.

And he's still watching me. I feel the touch his gaze almost like it's a caress against my skin. I'm going to combust.

"Where's your sketchpad?" I ask.

"My … oh," and he laughs. "Come. I'll show you."

He hooks my arm with his and I get goose bumps where our skin touches. I gasp and he gasps, and then he laughs and lets me go.

"That's new, too," he says.

I just swallow, then follow him, where we tromp across several yards of sand next to the pier. I'm behind him far enough to see that he's got a great ass. Faintly, I hear the screams of kids riding the roller coaster.

And then I get nervous, because where's he taking me? I've seen movies and TV shows about dead people who are found on the beach under piers. He might be drop-dead gorgeous and planning to drop _me_ dead. Am I being foolish right now, following a would-be murderer to my own death site?

I stick my hand down into my purse and curl my fingers around the bottle of mace.

"Here," he says.

His eyes are incandescent with that all-consuming beauty and joy that stole my breath during his performance, and I look at him in shock. Whatever he wants to show me, he's _all_ about it.

I inch closer to where he's pointing. There's a clump of brush and a wooden post and some kind of deep grooves in the sand. When I'm close enough to see what it is, I gasp and my hand raises to cover my mouth.

It's me. My face, my hair, my eyes. The detail is phenomenal.

"How? How did you?"

He's looking at me with that disturbing intensity again. "I have a photographic memory. And you're beautiful."

I tear my eyes away from the sand drawing and glare at him. "Stop it. Stop trying to… do whatever it is you're trying to do to me. This is not how it's done."

He looks gorgeously confused. "How what is done?"

I close my eyes as my face heats up. This is so embarrassing. "Getting to _know _someone," I say. "You can't just knock me off of my feet without letting me get to know you."

"I can't?"

"Not with me, you can't," I say, and start walking back up the sand, back to the pier. I have to escape and fast, before I fall.

Um, before I fall even harder.

"Would you like to draw me in the sand?" he calls after me.

And I have to laugh. Either he's woefully naïve, or he's deliberately baiting me. But the thing is, I don't have a clue. He won't give me one.

I catch a whiff of food and my stomach rumbles, and I realize I forgot to eat dinner. Because earlier, well, I was actually too tied up in knots to even think about eating.

"Let's go get something to eat," I say. Maybe I can get him to open up over Coke and a burger.

We eat at the hamburger joint on the pier. He devours his cheeseburger with as much surprise and enjoyment as he did his peanut butter and jelly.

"I love food," he says with a sigh, and he's so cute with ketchup smeared at the corner of his mouth.

I look away because I want to kiss it off, and it's way too early for that. I wish I knew him better, because I've always wanted to ride the Ferris wheel during the light show, maybe share a kiss up at the top. The sun is setting in the sky, turning it an orange-ish pink. It would have been perfect.

"What's wrong?" he asks. He's uncomfortably intuitive of my every expression.

But two can play the avoidance game. "It's getting late. I need to get home."

He walks me to my car, and he's close enough to me that I feel his body heat. Every time I move to put some space between us, he bridges the gap. If he grabs my hand, I'm going to melt at his feet.

At the car, I offer to give him a lift. After all, we're heading for the same area.

"I have a ride," he says.

"You do? Where did you park? I'll drop you off," I say.

Backing away, he shakes his head. "No need. I'll see you soon, Bella."

"Wait," I say. I seem to be saying that a lot around him. "Which place on the canal is yours?"

He looks uncomfortable for a second. "Why do you want to know?"

"I want to know you're real," I say. "That I can find you."

He steps back to me, and he's not even a foot away now. "I am real. And I'll always find you, Bella."

"But what if I want to bring you a casserole one day?"

His face lights up. "You'd bring me food?"

"I would. What do you like?"

"I don't know. Everything. Surprise me."

"Tell me where you live," I say.

"The tan one," he answers, winks at me, and takes off in a jog. Wow, he's fast. I keep looking for the violet sparks, but I don't see any.

I knew I must have been dreaming.

And I hate that he seems to be running away from me, but I guess that goes with the non-answering part.

When I get home, I look for the tan house… and see that almost every other house on the street is some sort of tan.

He played me again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter summary:** "I want everything," he says, and his expression is as serious and solemn as I've ever seen it. "And then I want even more."

**Acknowledgements: **lotus11 is my lovely pre-reader and cheerleader, and BelleBiter is my beta, sounding board and whip-wielder.

**A/N: **I've listened to _Suddenly_, _Magic_ and _I'm Alive_ from the Xanadu movie soundtrack numerous times while writing this story.

If that's not your thing, maybe the group Psicodreamics might be—it's ambient music inspired by mythology and fantasy.

* * *

At three in the morning on a Sunday, even the Venice Canals in Los Angeles are quiet.

In the back of the house where I live with Alice is my studio. Canvases I have yet to sell sit on the floor against three walls, and in between the floor-to-ceiling windows on the fourth. I've got two tables covered entirely with paint tubes, scattered around glass jars full of enough brushes to share with an art class. And before I switched on the light, the moonlight was casting rays against the canvas of my sunflower—which makes me want to paint a new one exactly like that.

Only there is another, more troublesome kind of want driving me this time.

This room, with its scent of turpentine and musky alchemy of paint, is where I am at home the most when I can forget where I am and what I'm doing; yet, it's also the place where I can be at home the least - when things sometimes don't go so well… and I am all too aware of where I am, and what I'm doing.

Which is the case now, because the subject I'm trying to create is consuming both my awakened and sleeping consciousness. And like most things that obsess my mind, I have to create his likeness to get him the hell out of there.

_He touched me._

His likeness is eluding me, though. Each sketch I render is wrong in one way or another. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to capture the alluring features that cause such turmoil inside of my heart. But maybe that kind of perfection should be impossible to replicate—it would probably just look fake.

Or maybe my mind is just rejecting the idea.

Or maybe my imagination is failing me.

_Why do I feel so drawn to him?_

It's his eyes that are giving me the most trouble: how he can look both intimidating and sensual, and how he can seem both enigmatic and joyful. What expression do I work to capture for someone with a chameleon's eyes? Every time I try to imagine the way he looked at me, it feels like my insides are being wrung dry, and I can't concentrate.

_I'm afraid._

I growl and tear the paper away from the easel, wadding it up furiously. It's impossible, at least right now. I might as well sit in the corner and bang my head against the wall for all the progress I seem to making.

It seems like he is going to continue haunting my dreams until I am finally satisfied with his likeness on the page.

Or until I go crazy.

I think I'm already eighty-percent there.

It's not a bad feeling, exactly, except for the damn confusion. The lies. The omissions.

_I would happily go crazy with him if I knew what I needed to know._

I walk over to the window to look out at the back of the house across from me. Their windows are all dark, but there is a gnome squatting and staring out from the edge of their back porch balcony.

Maybe it's on the look-out for would-be burglars. And maybe it's my imagination that the eyes flash violet, or maybe not. I have trouble deciding lately.

My life has never seemed so uncertain or so exciting.

It might even be wonderful for someone less cautious than me.

But I'm tired of being scared, of being careful… of being boring. It's definitely something to consider.

With a sigh, I turn back to my easel and I start sketching the impossible man again. I decide that I'm not going to focus on his eyes this time. No, I'm going to imagine that lovely force field around his body, and I'm going to sketch the idea of it behind every line.

And when I'm done, he's going to leap off of the page.

**. . .**

"Isabella Marie, have you been up all night again?"

I slow-blink at E's face in front of me. His mouth is closed. He can't be speaking.

Then I notice that the sun is hot and bright against the north wall, which is where Alice is standing with her hands on her hips. She's in shorts and a bright green halter top, and her expression is one of amusement and expectation.

"Oh," I startle and jump a foot. To say I wasn't expecting to see her there is the understatement of my world. I thought I was alone. That it was still night. And, okay, that at first E was the one who might somehow have been speaking to me.

"Oh is right," she says, and walks barefoot into the room. "You look like you've been dragged through a bush backwards. What's up?"

Alice gasps as she steps up beside me and sees the painting I've done.

E is in jeans that are low on his waist, revealing a prominent V.

_Oh my god. Did I— _

The last I knew, I was just _sketching _him.

I drop my paintbrush into the nearest jar with numb fingers.

Where on earth did all of this come from?

He's bare chested with a six pack and a light trail of hair that leads my eye down to the button-fly I gave him. One of his arms rests casually at his side, but the other is raised, his palm held up as if to push outwards against the page on which I am painting him.

"So this is what's up. It's him. The Good Myth guy. God, he _is _gorgeous. You're truly obsessed with him, aren't you?"

I shrug and then nod. Because obviously I am.

"This is sex," she drawls as her gaze sweeps him from head-to-toe. Again. "Can you do the blond guy, too?"

I don't like her looking at him the way she is. It makes me feel bad for painting him like this, like I've somehow stolen something from him. Like we're… objectifying him.

Which we totally are, but I didn't mean for this to happen. Obviously my subconscious is uncontrollably horny.

"I didn't see the blond guy," I tell her. And besides, he's not the one maybe-possibly stalking me. Something I have yet to tell Alice about, once I figure out what he's really doing myself.

"Blond wavy hair, high cheekbones, a wide-shaped mouth," Alice intones, as she describes her own obsession.

"Sorry," I say. "I can only handle one sexy man at a time."

She blinks and steps away from my painting, then looks at me askance when I don't do the same.

"Are you finished for now? Are you hungry? Let's go get some _sausage _at Jodi Maroni's."

I wince. "You did not just say that."

But I like the idea of getting out of this room and going for a walk. My whole body is stiff and achy, and my head is fuzzy.

Our walk to The Boardwalk is slow and ambling because like almost always in Los Angeles, the sun is shining and it's beautiful. I tip my head back and let the rays kiss my face, and sigh with contentment.

I haven't felt this way in a long time. The feeling of restlessness has been replaced with satisfaction because hours ago, I was doing something that I feel I was born to do: to create. I got lost in my subject, it consumed me wholly, and I remember the magic of it from toe-to-fingertip. Actually, I feel kind of invincible right now.

"You're smiling," Alice says, and I can tell by her voice that she's smiling, too.

"Is that so unusual?"

"It's a bit unusual for you to smile at nothing in particular. You're kind of slow to smile, you know. What's going on with you?"

The Boardwalk is only pleasantly busy in the early morning, and the pathway is wide open ahead. As the breeze kicks up into wind, I see a couple of sea gulls drop and circle as they fight against it. Their cries are like music to my ears.

"I always feel my best when I'm creating."

"Mmmmm," she says suggestively. "And what a creation it is. What are you going to do with it? Are you going to try and sell it?"

She stops abruptly and grabs my arm. "If you sell it, I'll buy it. I want to show it to Tanya. Once she sees him, she might give me more time to locate Good Myth. _Elusive _Myth," she finishes dryly.

It still bugs her that she hasn't been able to find the group. After hearing about the power and effect Good Myth had on its audience, Alice's boss at Eclipse is outraged at the idea that the group has seemingly slipped through their fingers.

And here is where I should probably confess that the group's lead performer is even closer than Alice thinks. However, he's also absolutely _elusive._ But that doesn't keep me from looking for him behind every corner we pass.

"I'm not going to sell it," I say, and start walking again. On the right, we pass the It's Sugar store and its colorful windows. Up ahead is Jodi's. My stomach growls as I catch a whiff of food.

"Why not? You'd probably make a good sale."

I shrug. "Feels too private."

She laughs. "You're in love, you dirty girl. You'd probably make a fortune if you painted him in the nude."

I go red at the suggestion.

Jodi Maroni's is a Boardwalk favorite, and there's a couple of people already standing in line at the window. I smell meat sizzling on the grill and hear the faint tune of The Beach Boy's _Kokomo_ playing in the background. It's a perfect meld of scent and sound for the beach.

"I love this place," Alice tells the guy at the window. He's wearing a Dodger's baseball cap and a red apron.

"Whaddaya want?"

Alice tries something new every time we come here. Today, it's the Toulouse Garlic. I always get the same thing because we don't come here often, and whenever we do, I'm always craving my favorite.

I turn red again when I'm faced with my Hot Italian in a roll. I can barely fit it in my mouth.

As soon as I have the thought, I'm choking.

"One bite at a time, Bella," Alice pats my back.

We continue along Ocean Front as we eat our sausage rolls, and I hem and haw on telling her about E.

She'll want to meet him, but I don't even know where to find him. I don't know his last name. I don't know where he lives, and I'm almost certain that he's a stalker. A beautiful, talented one, but a stalker nonetheless.

But what if I don't tell her and she finds out I've been in contact with him? While he's been, um, stalking me?

"You know," I say, and dodge a boy on a roller board, "I think I've seen someone in our neighborhood who looks a bit like Good Myth's lead performer."

"No shit," she exclaims with a mouthful, so it comes out sounding more like _nocht_. I watch her hurriedly chew and hear her gulp.

"Where? When? _Here_?"

"Last week. He was jogging along the canal. Right beneath our balcony."

"Get out!"

She steps ahead and turns to walk backwards in front of me. "Well? Was it him or not?"

He knew my name.

He left violet sparks in his wake.

It was definitely him.

"I don't know," I sigh.

And I feel like an idiot. I'm as bad as E.

But what could I tell her?

_Oh yeah, it's him, but he's strange and lies and might be a criminal. _

"Liar," Alice breathes.

"What?" I gasp.

"I can tell you're lying. You fidgeted and didn't look at me when you answered. Which means it _is _him," she squeals, and grabs both of my upper arms. "Where is he?"

I groan. "I don't know, Alice. I don't know if it's him, and I don't know where to find him."

"What time was it when you saw him jogging?"

"Um, maybe six-forty-five."

She's aghast. "In the _morning_?"

"That's right."

"Darn. That means I'm going to have to get up before the rooster crows."

"I don't know if it was him," I say again. Lie again.

"Well, we're going to find out."

"We?"

"Yes, we. You're coming with me."

But I don't run. I sketch. I paint. I might do a sit-up or two on occasion.

"Tomorrow morning, six-thirty, you and I are going running," she says.

"How about we do a fast walk instead?"

"Whatever. As long as we're there when he comes by. I've _got _to get that group, Bella."

She's acting nuts.

"You haven't found anyone promising lately?" I ask as we turn around at the Poke-Poke place, heading back the way we came.

"Tanya likes the art performer I found—Oh! Hey, Bella! Maybe you should try and learn how to create a picture to the sound of music. That's really popular right now, you know."

"No," I roll my eyes. "I'm not painting a dog face to Ellie Goulding's _Anything Could Happen_ in front of an audience."

"Too bad. Anyway, the art performer is interesting, but it's _sex_ that sells. And that group was _sex_."

I remember.

"That's why your painting would sell," she adds.

But I'm not selling it. I can't.

I keep my eyes open on our way back to the house, but if E's around, he's keeping out of sight.

**. . . **

Alice and I go fast-walking on Monday morning. And on Tuesday. And bright and early for the rest of the week.

"Are you sure it was six-forty in the _morning?_"

"Positive, Alice. I'm not so out of it that I can't tell morning from late afternoon."

She makes a sound of frustration.

But E doesn't turn up again until Saturday night - when, of course, Alice isn't around.

I'm holding my breath while heaving a bag of trash into the bin outside the garage. When I release the cover, there he is, eyes twinkling and smiling widely at me like he's so happy to see me.

"Where have you been?" I ask with a pounding heart.

"Close," he says, and raises his hand to touch my face.

I'm frozen, waiting for the touch, craving it, when a window across the way is slammed down. He blinks, I blink, and then I remember where I am and what I'm supposed to be feeling.

_Anger._

"You lied to me again," I say, and it comes out all wrong, like I've got tears clogging my throat. I don't sound angry at all.

"I didn't," he says, and takes a step closer to me. Between us is the smelly garbage bin.

Good. Maybe the stink of it will help me to keep my common sense.

"I told you I lived in the tan house," he says in his silky tone of voice. "I just didn't tell you which one."

He seems both apologetic and amused, and I feel my back stiffen in outrage.

"And I told you I didn't want to be played with," I grate and look away from his green, green eyes. "Nothing's changed. What do you want from me, E?"

My skin tingles where he touches it; his fingers wrap around my wrist and pull me to the side and several steps away from the bin. There goes my common sense, I think, as my gaze drops to where he's touching me.

His fingers tip my chin up to look at him. And his eyes, which were just green a moment ago, now flash gold.

"I want everything," he says, and his expression is as serious and solemn as I've ever seen it. "And then I want even more."

I gulp. He _what?_

"I want your sense of adventure to meet mine. I want your courage, your passion, your joy, and your love. I want to help you transform your life, Bella."

I stare at him with a knit brow. "Are you a self-help coach or something?"

His eyes smile at me. "In a sense, I guess."

I pull my arm away from him. "I don't need any help, thank you."

He pursues me to the foot of the stairs. "Don't you?"

"Not from you," I say and whirl on him. "I don't know who you think you are—a singer, an artist, or self-help coach—but to me you're just a beautiful liar! And you can't play with me like you have been."

Because it hurts. I like you too much.

And I shouldn't.

"I want to give you the moon and the stars, Bella. You deserve them."

"People don't always get what they deserve," I say.

How can he sound and look so sincere?

"They do when I have a say," he responds.

"What say do you have?" I scoff. I try to look away from him, but I can't. His eyes seem to hold mine.

"I'm here for you. I know you feel it, even if you don't believe it."

"But why? Because I _deserve _it?"

"You need a little inspiration. That's where I come in."

"You inspire me to anger," I bite out, and there are tears in my eyes. Dammit!

"I also inspire you to feel. To want to love. And to paint, do I not?"

"I painted you," I tell him, and watch his eyes fly open in surprise. "But I think I'll have to destroy it because I can't have you consuming my time and thoughts like you have. It's not healthy."

Now I think there are tears in his eyes. But that can't be.

"You can't forget me," he murmurs. "Not any more than I can forget you. Don't you see? We're attracted to each other. And because we are, you felt the need to paint."

I shake my head, but he's not through speaking.

"Don't turn away, Bella. This is how it works. Love and beauty inspire creation. _Feelings _inspire creation."

"You confuse me," I whisper fiercely.

"I make you feel," he says. "In order to create, you have to have powerful feelings… and you haven't for so long."

I am unable to hide the lance of pain his words cause. Stupid, really. He's a stranger, and an unreliable one, but he seems to know me better than I do myself.

He steps close to me in the heavy silence, and his fingers are warm and soft against my cheek.

"Don't be afraid."

I look up at him in disbelief.

"I'll do everything in my power to help you succeed," he murmurs.

His eyelashes are creating shadows against his cheekbones, and he's wistfully beautiful. Dangerously so.

My stomach is in knots, and my fingernails are biting into the palms of my hands. "Can't you tell me who you really are?"

He bends forward and brushes his lips against my cheek. I gasp and turn my mouth to his, but he's backed away.

"I hail from the highest mountain in Greece, otherwise known as Mt. Olympus." He pauses and gives me a look that singes me from the inside out with its power, then he bows to me.

"I am the Muse of Dance, Bella."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter summary:** This must be what magic feels like.

**Acknowledgements: **lotus11 is my lovely pre-reader-slash-cheerleader. BelleBiter is my beta and sounding board, and so much more – the woman knows _Latin._

**A/N: **Fans of the 1997 TV series _La Femme Nikita_ might recognize a pivotal scene in this chapter.

* * *

There are some things in life that I never expect to hear. For example:

_Your dad has had a heart attack._

_You've won the million dollar lottery._

_There's a sexy vampire looking daggers at you._

Now I can add:

_I am the muse of dance._

He – _the muse of dance_ \- stands and stares down at me with his green eyes that sometimes turn gold or violet, his face hovering close to mine. His gaze is running all over my face like he's trying to figure me out, like _I'm_ the one who just said something crazy.

He looks quite normal. Drop dead gorgeous - the kind of guy with looks that can steal a girl's common sense - but normal.

But he's certifiably nuts. I _knew_ it, I knew he was crazy.

"If you're the muse of dance, you've got the wrong girl," I grit. "I'm an artist, not a dancer."

I'm humoring the beautiful man. One last time.

"A muse is a muse," he says. He looks at me with wide, bewildered eyes, maybe because he just can't understand why I don't believe him. His crazy seems to be more deep-rooted than my disappointment about what he's said.

"Our talents don't dictate to whom we inspire," he continues in his melodic tone of voice. "Who do you think gave Thomas Edison the idea to use a loose thread from his bamboo fishing pole in a light bulb?"

I look at him askance. Is he kidding?

"There he was fooling and fretting with that pole to death, and the thread just wouldn't give and wouldn't give, and I joked with him that that thread seemed tougher than the wood splinter he was currently using in his light bulbs. And eureka! Thirteen hours became twelve hundred."

"Um," I say, and take a wee step back. He's talking about Thomas Edison like he actually shook hands with the guy.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "That's right. Tom liked to fish, just like your dad. Although Tom's thing was inventing. He wasn't happy unless he was thinking up a new or a better way of doing a thing."

"You did not go fishing with Thomas Edison," I growl.

"But I did," he says. "Just once, though. That doesn't count?"

His eyes are sparkling gold; he's excited for what he's telling me. He is _not _kidding_._

"One of my favorite memories is of Godgifu. She was married to a man whose avarice caused her a certain anguish. She told me once that he loved her too much, too ill, and had a behavior of gifting her with what she called _these horrid baubles that would feed a family of six for a year_."

His voice takes on a curious ye-olde-worlde lilt as he continues.

"Leofric was a nobleman who believed in proper taxation of tenants, be they struggling or no, but Godgifu had a right soft spot for the poor. Fortunately, he did listen to her with half an ear on occasion, and they made a wager of sorts. He promised to pardon the taxes of those hit hardest if she'd only but ride through Coventry in the altogether."

He leans forward with a secretive smile. "I whispered tirelessly in her ear. Oh, but she was stubborn like you; but then, she felt an understandable, distinct kind of fear. So I persuaded Leofric to egg her on, seeing as how he believed she'd never attempt such a thing."

And here he downright cackles, bending at the waist to rest his hands on his knees as he laughs.

"They both rose to the occasion! And she-she—" Laughter overcomes him now, interrupting his words, and I can't help but be enraptured with the way he's telling this story. "She rode through Coventry bareback, giving anyone who cared to look a right eyeful."

So he knows the story of Godiva, I think, and cross my arms. Maybe he once had to do a book report on her; something that would account for all of the details he seems to know.

"Leofric, he gave in," he continues, wiping at his eyes. "She got what she wanted. And the people – they loved her. Did you know that she used to tuck her smallest baubles into the blankets of babies whose mommas she was visiting?"

"No," I growl. "And neither do you. You're making this up."

He _has_ to be making some of this up. Maybe he should have been an actor instead of a singer and dancer. Lord knows, he looks the part.

"No," he says softly. "I'm not, Bella. I am sharing a few good memories with you. I have many, some more unbelievable than others. Would you like to hear the story about how Sigmund Freud came up the Oedipus complex? It's quite disturbing, actually, but—"

"Stop being so ridiculous," I say. "Are you an actor? Is this maybe an assignment? To find some girl and make her believe that you are something out of this world?"

Suddenly afraid of what I'm suggesting – because I'd almost rather die than to be on camera – I stiffen and dart my gaze around us, trying to find a likely person who might be aiming a camera lens our way.

"Well, I once knew an actor," he says and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "More than one, if you want the truth. My favorites would have to be Bud Abbott and Lou Costello."

_If I want the truth?_

I don't think he's capable of telling it.

He's still talk, talk, talking. No one I've ever known, not even Alice, talks as much as E.

"Who's on first?" he grins.

"Who's going to get clobbered?" I threaten.

"Which one of us?"

"You, that's who!"

He's laughing, which is a beautiful thing to see, and I know I've fallen for the joke. But it just pisses me off. Why is he doing this?

Feeling suddenly tired and sad and just _done, _I turn to leave.

He catches my arm, and his touch is softly firm and warm. His fingers against my skin still raises goose bumps, something that he notices with a gentle smile.

"I'm a muse," he says. "Your muse for now."

He… truly believes that he is a muse.

Like champagne bubble froth, my disbelief and regret spill out in a torrent of words. "You're a liar. And obviously good at telling stories. I knew you were too good to be true. A muse? What a crock of shit. You need help, _E – _or whatever your real name is. I don't know how many women you've won over this way, but I'm not going to be one of them. Go _away_. Leave me alone."

And then I'm stumbling up the stairs because there are tears in my eyes.

That he lets me walk away from him both relieves and wrecks me. Even though it hurts, even though each step I climb is another painful heartbeat away, I know I have to do it.

For my sanity.

For his, too, because he has to learn that he can't treat people this way.

Step.

_Goodbye._

Step.

_Goodbye._

Step.

My hands push against the worn, heavy wood door that leads into the short foyer. Beyond that is the living room, and one of Alice's leopard-print accent chairs.

_And E._

Arms folded across his chest, he's standing beside the chair.

His hair is in a wilder disarray than I've ever seen it. And the look on his face — that face that has only ever appeared beautifully seductive to me — is stiff with uncertainty as our eyes meet.

What.

Is.

He.

Doing.

Here?

My body throws itself backwards against the door, and my head knocks against the wood hard enough that all my thoughts collapse.

When my eyes open, he's down on his knees in front of me. His eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is clenched.

I make a sound from the back of my throat, and he shushes me with a hand gently placed against the side of my face.

But how can he be _here_?

He was just down _there_.

I jerk my face away from his warm touch.

"Bella," he says, and the sound washes over me like syrup.

"Don't," I say, and scramble to my feet.

He rises with me, catching my hand and trapping it warm against his chest. One of his arms comes around me, pulling me closer to him, even though I'm digging my heels into the floor.

My heart stops – and then starts hammering at how close he is. He's never been this close to me. Never seemed to want to get this close. Why does he now?

"You know, I don't work to win over anyone," he says, and his breath is a caress against my face. "I don't have to, at least not on purpose. It's never been an issue before."

His brows are furrowed again, and he looks as confused as I feel.

I have to look away. Heavy silence fills the room, loud with unformed questions in my mind. The familiar sight of my own and Alice's things around the house does nothing to quell the uneasy racing of my heart. That would only happen if he wasn't here, or if he wasn't holding on to me.

Gathering my resolve, I glance up into his eyes. They're still gold and solemn. And I just shake my head – because I am still out of words. I don't know what he's up to now, but he's kind of terrifying me.

"How," I begin, and have to swallow because my throat has gone bone dry. "How did you?"

I can't even complete the thought. Like I said: out of words.

"My parents are gods. Disappearing from one moment to appear in another is one of the first things we learn."

I laugh a little; it comes out as a hysterical-sounding whiney wheeze. Maybe I'm dreaming, because I think he just said his parents are gods, too.

"You can't be for real," I say weakly.

I don't realize I've closed my eyes until his touch against my cheeks snaps them open.

"I'm… for real," he says. "I've been here – everywhere – for millennia. I may take on different souls and forms and sexes, but I assure you, Bella, I am for real. And I am here. Right here, right now, for as long as you need me."

I look away from his beautifully intense gaze. He can tell me anything and get away with it, so I can't look at him, I can't see those eyes and fall under their spell again.

Because if he's real, if he's telling the truth, _I'm_ going to go crazy.

"Tuesday, last June 28th," he says. "That was the day your dad had a heart-attack, the day he almost died."

The air I'm breathing is suddenly acrid and choppy. My mouth works to form questions, but nothing is coming out.

"That's when you began to doubt yourself, to overthink every decision you made."

"Stop," I say, and raise a hand to my forehead. I know I'm a worry-wart, especially when it concerns Dad.

Too familiar with how those thoughts like to keep me company, I mostly try to run away from them. That Dad almost died still wakes me up with a pounding heart sometimes at night. He's all the family I have left.

"You can't let fear rule your life, Bella."

"I don't," I snap.

_He doesn't even know me._

How can he know that?

I try to push away from him, but he won't let me go. His gaze is intense, and his hands are trapping me and making me panic.

Seeming to sense it, he finally lets me go. I stagger over to the couch and fall onto the cushions. I'm weak all over and my head is buzzing empty. He follows me, his steps slow and measured. Which is a very good thing, because I feel as if I've been backed into a corner.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. He lowers himself to the far end of the couch, and his hands are raised apologetically. He's wearing a puppy dog expression, and my heart gives a lurch.

He's too damn pretty.

"I've frightened you, Bella, and that's not what I meant to do. You were in trouble and I only meant to steal a moment or two, but I feel like I'm totally mishandling this one."

_Mishandling this one?_

"What do you mean?"

Leaning over with his elbows on his knees, he holds his head in his hands. It's a surprisingly defeatist pose for him, and seeing it gives me a pang. I'm used to seeing him as self-confident, beautifully serene, and larger than life.

"I'm only supposed to try to inspire you," he says to the floor. "My performance was supposed to be the end of it, but I decided to come back—"

_Come back from where?_

"—and make sure that I succeeded. I made sure that you would see me that morning. And you did, but I could tell you still had doubts. I didn't see a creative light in your eyes, I didn't see the right energy surrounding you."

"But how do you deliberately inspire someone?" I ask.

He raises his head. Right in front of my eyes, his change from gold to violet.

What the?

As I watch with a gaping mouth, a pulsing violet light begins to shimmer around his body, and I gasp from the depths of my soul.

Holy crap, holy crap.

"For some, it's as easy as giving them a smile," he says, and gives me what I think might be his best one. His voice is different. More resonant; the sound penetrates me like a gong's echoing ripples.

"Some people require a performance, like what you saw a few weeks ago. For some, it's enough for me to appear in a dream. Or to whisper a thought to them."

"You're glowing," I say hoarsely.

"That's right," he tells me and stands, his lethal good looks morphing into something more. "I'm giving you the full effect because that's what you need, Bella. You're resistant. You forget the dreams I give you. You don't hear my whispers. You doubt what you see and feel. You doubt _me._"

As he stands in violet, angelic glory, feet planted on the lamb's wool rug in front of the couch, I don't see how I can doubt him anymore. He's radiating the inner beauty and power I witnessed during his performance. It's racing along every inch of his skin, and I feel something like electricity in the space between us.

I'm dead-gone enthralled.

"I can't allow you to second-guess me anymore. It's against the rules to expose myself like this, and I'll probably get into trouble, but I don't care. I think you're worth it. The question is, _do you_?"

I'm… at a loss."I-I-I—"

"I'll have to leave if you don't. And, Bella?" He gives me such a look of woebegone sadness that tears immediately spring to my eyes. "You'll be one of my worst regrets."

"This is impossible," I breathe. "Impossible."

"Obviously not," he says.

"You're really here for me?"

"I am."

"Did… God send you?"

He gives me a gentle look of reproach. "We're allowed to choose whomever we want. Your spark is one of my favorites, so when it dimmed, I knew I had to come."

"My what?"

"Everyone has a spark," he murmurs. "Although the color, shape and size varies with each person."

I don't know how it happened, but I'm on my feet and standing just inches away from him. The light around him burns even brighter when he takes my hands in his, and to my astonishment, the light moves up my wrists to my arms, until it surrounds me, too. I feel buoyant, invincible, and – suddenly, something else. I feel _free_.

"What does my spark look like?" I ask in a voice that doesn't sound like me. It's like it's more pure, or metallic.

This must be what magic feels like.

He stares at me with his glowing violet eyes, and it's like he sees more than as I appear to him. "It's silver iridescent when you are happily creating, but more silvery onyx when you're not."

I'm a silver?

"Oh," I gasp-say.

"Even when you're at your worst, it's still a sight to see, though," he says, and it's clear to me that he sees it now: my spark.

"You are iridescent violet at the moment," he breathes. "It must be our spark together."

"Why can I see yours, but not mine?"

"We can never see our own," he says.

"That's a shame," I murmur, as we press the palms of our hands together and raise them to chest-level. We're both staring at our hands, and I'm surprised to note that his breathing is as choppy as mine.

"I've never felt anything like this," he says, weaving his fingers through mine.

I swallow thickly. "That makes two of us."

I watch him as he studies our hands; he seems transfixed by the movement of his skin against mine. He curls his fingers down, grasping my hands in his, then releases me to run the tips of his fingers slowly down the inside of mine. Little tingles shoot up my arms and thrum through my body as he turns the backs of his hands into the palms of mine, letting my touch caress him. Then he's running his fingers along the outside of my hands, down the inside of my wrists, awakening every nerve ending along the way.

He's… it's like he's making love to me with his touch.

My heart thunders and my breathing stutters, forcing a moan from my throat.

His thick-lashed eyes raise to mine, and I see that they are heavy with want, probably much like mine.

And then his eyes open wide with surprise, and he's backing away from me like he's been singed by fire.

I hunch my shoulders and clasp my hands, wringing them as he hides his gaze from mine. Why did he stop?

"I can't do this with you, I'm sorry," he says. He glances quick at me, and I see his eyes are green now. Dark, regretful green.

I turn away from him and go back to the couch, grabbing a pillow to my chest to hug. "Why?"

"It's forbidden," he says, and begins to pace across the floor. "I've already had too much contact with you. We're not supposed to get involved with… people."

He takes a shaky breath to continue, but I want to know what he was going to call me when he hesitated.

"Humans," he says softly.

"You're not supposed to get involved with _humans_?" I ask in disbelief.

My body is still trembling from his touch, and he can barely look at me. I pull the pillow tighter against my chest, trying to smother the unwanted jolt of rejection.

"I'm a muse, Bella. I don't exist here on Earth."

My voice is faint. "Where do you exist, then?"

He sighs and turns to face me, then takes a few quick steps to my side. When he drops to his knees in front of me, my heart and thoughts stop.

"In the heavens."

He points at the ceiling.

Like that's any better. He might as well live on the moon.

And then he's leaning close and pressing his warm, all-too-human lips against my cheek.

Head and thoughts spinning, I can't help but try to move my mouth to his—

"I have to go," he says, pushing himself away.

Feeling rejected again, I spring to my feet. "You're leaving? _Now_?"

"I'll return," he says and smiles, but he's backing away from me and I'm panicking for an entirely different reason now.

"So you don't live in a tan house?"

"And I don't work at The Pacific Design Center," he adds with a raised eyebrow.

"You should have made me dislike you," I growl.

Why couldn't he have just been a pushy jerk?

Or a hunch-back?

Or an ugly, egotistical, boring stalker?

_But noooo. _

He has to be a charismatic, gorgeous muse, here just for me.

How on earth am I supposed to get past that?

Because now that I know he's not _crazy_, that he's a _muse_, I think I like him even more. Which is ridiculous of me.

He looks puzzled. "I don't know how I would make someone dislike me. I don't want anyone to hate me, or to be mad at me."

Suddenly, his head cocks, and he looks sheepish.

"Oops. I must go. Goodbye, Bella."

And _poof_, he disappears.

I stare at the open space where he was for long moments and just blink. He was there and now he's gone? Again?

_Huh._

Like a dog circling her bed before she lies down, I move around the area where he was just standing. I don't know what I'm searching for; maybe his residual force field? Whatever it is, I'm no closer to understanding it.

The space still seems super-charged with his personality, his presence. And even though the sun is going down outside, it still seems so bright in this room.

Maybe he left behind a bit of magic.

And… have I lost my mind, or did I really just come _this_-close to kissing the muse of dance?

Because he's _really_ the muse of dance. Or… something. Something more than what I am, anyway.

I don't know how to feel about that.

It doesn't make sense in my head.

I'm fascinated with the idea, sure. Who wouldn't be? But I'm scared. What does one do with a muse? How should I act now? Is it even okay to like him?

He admitted that he was attracted to me.

But he also said it was forbidden to interact with humans. Which means he shouldn't be attracted to me.

_He's not human._

But he feels and looks like one.

Would he kiss like one?

Make love like one?

I growl and fist my hair.

I can't go there. I can't. I don't think even _he's _allowed to go there.

I'm not sure why, though. Seems to me that making love would encourage all kinds of creativity.

For long moments, I imagine our tangled arms and legs on my bed. The feel of his warmth against mine. His breath mingling with mine as he finally, finally kisses me.

And I'm pacing and circling again, this time like a caged tiger.

_He's not human._

His eyes change color. He can disappear into thin air. He can make his voice reverberate. And, most alarming of all, just a look from him can make me go crazy from the inside out.

_He can hurt me._

Would I have had a better chance at making it work with a crazy person than with a muse?

In the mirror above the fireplace, I catch sight of a wild looking girl. My hair is a mess, and my face is flushed, but I don't think I've ever looked so… alive.

Or so out-and-out scared.

Because suddenly my life has gotten way too interesting.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter summary:** Everyone has a story.

**Acknowledgements: **BelleBiter is my beta and sounding board; this story wouldn't be what it is without her. lotus11 and SunflowerFran are my lovely pre-readers-slash-cheerleaders. And last, although not least, thank you to 2brown-eyes for my story banner.

**A/N: **Twenty-three cheers for BelleBiter, who wrote the voice of Zeus. Much of Zeus' character is a nod to several epic poems &amp; odes &amp; texts in Ancient Greek, Latin, Persian, Babylonian and Hebrew.

Awesome beta is _awesome.  
_

* * *

Being summoned by the king of all the gods was never a good thing; and it meant a good 24 hours of horrendous weather on Earth if any one of them were to drag his feet in responding. No one made Zeus wait – certainly not one of his less-favored children.

With a last lingering glance at Bella's expressive eyes – she was hurt and feeling out of sorts with him, and he hoped by all that was revered that he could make good on his promise to come back – E shot skyward from Earth towards Mount Olympus.

A strong wind buffeted him back and forth, and he found himself dizzied in the midst of a cyclone; it spun him mercilessly until he was dropped just below the white marble dais. There would be no comfort for him this visit. No blue sky, no sunlight, no mother or siblings to greet him.

Just his angry and august king, who sat on his golden throne leaning forward in expectation, silver-white thunderbolt at the ready. And lo, he was a sight almost too bright to gaze upon in his tall glistening robe, glowering with his fiery bright eyes. The wind had not let up, and it lifted his long hair back from his formidable forehead to frame a most austere visage. Zeus was regally imposing under the best of circumstances; when vexed, he was truly the terrible force of nature which made poets wax majestic, mere mortals perish in terror, and luckless lesser gods tremble.

E gathered his nerve and courage, bowed low and long, and greeted his king.

"O Great Ruler of All in the Heavens—"

"Hear me now, Terpsichore, suddenly prone in veneration  
Now prostrate in heaven, yet on earth prone to act:  
Worrisome habit this, leaping forth before consideration;  
It wracks wretched thy mother's heart and wreaks havoc to retract."

And Zeus slammed the thunderbolt against the floor, so that his next words were delivered with a rumble of thunder that shook the very air and dispersed the angry-colored mist around his sandal-clad feet.

"Girded plainly, art thou, to commit blasphemy  
Barely hiding thy nature in Art's alchemy?  
Unveiling what no muse has right to reveal:  
The source of sacred passions is thine to _conceal_."

E hadn't believed that wanting to kiss a human could be considered such an act, especially when Zeus himself had enjoyed one on more than one occasion. But he bit his tongue and bowed his head, suspecting that Zeus wasn't looking for his response yet.

"I shall grant thee a glimpse into such prophesy:  
When a young muse proffers powers public too oft  
Diluted by show, this creates heresy -  
Displaying divine gifts begs betraying those aloft."

E squirmed internally in anguish. This was worse than what he had been anticipating. It wasn't the impending kiss that Zeus considered blasphemy; it was the exposing of his powers.

Zeus rumbled on.

"Once lowered and revealed, these powers would wane  
(Any muse of some sense should dissemble them such);  
Yet as I am loathe into Lethe to toss thee again…  
Best that thou remember: muses may be reinvented much."

He ought to have known, but it had been centuries since he'd last been called, and he was unprepared; still reeling from what had almost occurred with the human who kept throwing him off balance. Erato herself had a poet's predilection for falling in love hard enough that only Hades' legendary river of forgetfulness could have so cleanly washed away her own muse memories.

Still, he had to count on his mother to keep Zeus from tossing _him_ again into the Lethe. Surely once was enough for any of them.

Unless he had already been twice, or more, its victim. Zeus insinuated as much. But as his mother disliked direct questions, he had no real way of knowing.

"Offer now mindful apologies, with telling traitor tongue past teeth;  
We bear witness to what nonsense thou let slip through mind and deed."

Best to be brief, then.

"I can do naught but beg your leniency, Father. I decline an excuse; there be naught."

The wind kicked up and howled with a vengeance. Lightning speared the sky.

"Darest thou deem silence whilst denying me obeisance?  
Speak that which may make some sense as a pretense of complaisance!"

E raised his head to meet his king's fiery gaze, and led off with, "I am to inspire the hearts of men who would inspire others, but this particular charge required my counsel. As well as a bit more: for her future work is to one day mean a great deal to the hematologist who will discover a cure for one of Earth's most reviled diseases. If only she could but get there," he finishes with a bowed head.

And may it be enough to alleviate his king's displeasure.

"Spirit-stirring reason; yet in past would not perturb thee so…  
If memory serves, thy charge is to inspire, equip, and hence to go.  
Earthly lingering and longing have now slowed thy pace of dance  
Mark well to weigh wise counsel that may free thee from this trance."

He was heartened to hear that his king growled with less angered measure than before.

"Yes, My King."

Finally, the wind lessened into gentle gusts.

"Ah. Depart unscathed as may, young muse."

Was he to be forgiven so easily?

"Yet heed us well: erase this mortal's memories of thy powers with some haste.  
Thou mayst seduce her any other way; that is thy choice.  
Needs recall the subtlety with which our breaths of inspiration cast:  
We are the whisper on the wind, and not its uttered voice."

E felt the beginnings of relief.

As though he could sense it, Zeus leveled him with a gimlet stare. Behind him, lightning flashed. He was _not_ forgiven.

"And then there is thy mother. One whose clemency does not match mine  
Holds in her hand our pact: she may have final say over her own.  
Remain secure today from me, yet disregard her will and find  
Maternal wrath that even Lethe cannot duel or dim at dawn."

Then he slammed the lightning bolt to the floor in emphasis.

"Get thee away, muse. Tend to thy mortal."

E bowed in recognition and compliance.

**. . .**

"How's things, Dad?"

Every Monday night, I call my dad to see how he's feeling, to let him know I'm thinking of him, and to say I love him. After the weirdness of this weekend, I want a little normality.

"_Hey, Bells. Went fishing with Billy yesterday. Got some catfish and a bluegill."_

"You gonna broil them?"

Exasperated, he sighs loudly. He dislikes it when I check up on him like this, but he's learned to accept it. He remembers how devastated I was.

"_Billy's the fish-fry guy, not me."_

"You still walking around the mall?"

"_Lost five pounds,"_ he says, and there's pride in his voice.

"I'm so glad, Dad. You know I love you, right?"

I hear him chuckle softly, and melt.

"_You tell me every time you call."_

"That's my job," I say.

"_Thought that was mine."_

"It's both of ours."

He's never been one for saying the words out loud; he prefers to show what he feels. And until his heart attack last year, that was how I was, too.

Now, I like to make sure he knows.

Because life is short.

**. . .**

Sunday awakens slowly, and then all at once on the canal.

I make coffee and head for my studio, doing a double-take once I see the portrait I painted of E; it's almost like I've forgotten the effect of his presence overnight.

His gaze still wakes my body up in uncomfortable ways.

I walk over to where his likeness is propped against the wall, and raise my hand to press against the one I painted of his. For some reason, this stirs a sense of nostalgia, and I have to turn away.

I hurt inside this morning.

So I spend it in my studio, covering a canvas with the uneasy mood in my soul. I'd thrashed awake hard, an ache in my chest, with the prickling sense that I'd lost something precious. Trying to remember what it was made my head hurt. But it was something… something just out of my reach.

Logic tells me these feelings are probably from a dream, but I can't shake what feel like real memories. They catch me unawares at odd moments, overshadowing my every move and thought. They almost make me want to cry.

Why?

My mind has no answer, and it is far from quiet.

It's been a long time since I've had a dream that left such powerful feelings in its wake, especially one I couldn't even remember upon waking. If Alice were here, she would say that the dream is trying to tell me something.

Why can't I remember anything but the colors?

Over and over, I drag my brush across the canvas in swirls, in sweeping dips, with an angry dab here and there. I use only colors of violet and white silver. The two shades fill my mind and my vision, until there is nothing else. My arm gets tired, but I can't stop. This maelstrom of movement I'm creating feels exactly right. And though I can't remember the dream that has me in knots, the colors seem to mean something.

I just need them to stop haunting me now.

When I am done with my painting, I'm faced with an indistinct shape of a woman's body. She is uncurling herself from a fetal position where I'd painted her in the chaotic, darkly-colored corner of the canvas – and she's reaching towards the opposite corner where there is a serene sea of incandescent violet.

"It's you," someone whispers against my ear.

Surprised, I turn my head, but no one's here.

I am alone in the room.

And for no reason at all, I start to cry.

**. . .**

The week passes slowly, yet quickly. Work drags, and I struggle to keep my concentration from slipping. Numbers in a spreadsheet can't captivate me like a paintbrush in the hand does.

It's not until mid-morning on Thursday, when the sun streams through the window and I become aware that I'm suddenly too warm, that I realize I've forgotten to go to work.

When I'm painting, I lose track of the time; it seems to race forward like I'm sent through a time warp. I forget to eat, to sleep, to shower. And I wouldn't spend a minute away from a canvas if nature didn't call. Or if Alice didn't check in on me. She says I'm worse than a child about keeping to a schedule, and it's true.

But I've never painted through my alarm before.

I call work, pretending there's a frog in my throat and a brick on my head.

Afterwards, my body stiff – and feeling both guilty and free – I shower, and then head for the Venice Boardwalk with a few paintings I hope to sell.

I'm pulling my supply cart out from the trunk of my car when a brush of color flashes beside me. Jumping, I turn to see E standing just behind me. The wind is playing with his copper waves, and he looks especially boyish with the sheepish grin he's aiming my way.

"Did you call out sick today, too?" I ask wryly.

After a long pause that I don't really understand, he says, "Vacation day. May I help you?"

"Thanks, but I've got it," I tell him. And I do; I have this routine down pat. Only the essentials come along for the ride to the strip. After I carefully ease the couple of paintings inside my cart, I bang the trunk closed and glance at E.

He's looking at me with an odd look on his face; he seems almost sad. But as soon as he sees me turn, his face morphs into its usual mischievous expression, and there goes my breath and common sense.

Wearing khaki long shorts and a white button-up shirt, he is sexy-casual, perfectly dressed for the weather. If he comes with me, I'm sure to get more interest in my work than usual.

"Are you sorry you've been lying to me yet?" I ask, as we head across the parking lot.

"Puh-Pardon?" he actually stutters.

He's definitely not himself today, I think, as I catch his cheeks flush. I'm so surprised to see that blush that I stumble on the pavement. Good thing I was holding on to the cart.

"I'll take that," he says, and grabs the handle from me. While I gape, he reaches out for my hand.

_He wants to hold my hand._

Probably just to keep me from falling, though.

_Works for me._

Slowly, I slide my hand into his. Tingly prickles race up my arm and back. Holy cow, if he can do this with just his touch, I'm a goner.

"Which house do you live in?" I demand, and refuse to take another step.

We're not going anywhere until he gives me at least that. And my stomach tightens into a ball of anxiety until I see him give me a small nod.

"The last house at the end of the row," he says softly. "I'll take you there later."

At my slow smile of triumph and gratitude, he flushes again, and returns a killer one that has _me_ blushing back.

"There," I say. "Was that so difficult, Mr. Mystery Guy?"

He's looking at his feet as we walk, so I can't see his expression, but I still get the sense that something is off with him.

"There are definitely more difficult things one has to do in the world," he answers.

"Uh… that's the spirit," I joke, and squeeze his hand. His gaze raises from his feet to our hands, then to my eyes.

"You okay?" I ask.

"I am now," he answers. "I guess I missed you."

I don't know what to say to that. How can he go from not divulging who he really is, or where he lives or works, to _this_?

"I'm not the one playing games," I remind him.

There's a look of gentle annoyance on his face, but then he shrugs his shoulders and smiles.

It's enough.

For now.

June in Los Angeles is usually gray and gloomy, but today the sun is shining. Maybe he brought it with him. Suddenly my expectations for the day seem more promising.

People in shorts and flip-flops are patrolling the strip. Some are dressed really scantily – like the shirtless guy flashing his butt crack above his low slung board shorts. I imagine he might be an exhibitionist of some kind, or maybe he's working his way up to it.

And then some are overly dressed – like the blond lady under an umbrella, wearing a blue jean jacket. She might have poor blood circulation, or is maybe fighting skin cancer.

Everyone has a story.

Personally, I like the guy under a Dr. Seuss hat. He has bright blue dreads and enough makeup on for a clown. I think of all of the trouble he must have taken to look that way. Maybe he was easily ignored once, and has determined that he never will be again.

He's also roller skating down the boardwalk and eyeing E like he'd love to have a sidekick.

"It's quite colorful here," E says, and waves at Dr. Seuss.

"That's Los Angeles for you," I say. "An overflowing melting pot where anything goes. And usually does."

He's already getting his share of attention. Anyone who passes us does a double-take when they get a look at him.

Me? They don't even see me.

But that's what the paintings are for.

"I'd like you to meet my friend, Alice," I tell him as we reach an empty spot on the strip where I want to place my easels.

He takes the first one from me, then unfolds it with a snap. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and I watch the play of muscles under his skin, and I want to touch him.

I shake my head when I realize I'm just standing there fingering the edge of my tank top. Darn, I can't keep my eyes off of him, either.

"Alice," he says, and bends to grab the second easel from the cart. "She's your best friend, right?"

"That's right. She's also a talent scout," I say, and set up the French box easel with the side shelf that I use when I work outdoors. It has a place for my pencils and brushes.

"Alice has been looking for you," I continue. "Ever since we saw you perform at The Greek."

At that, he looks startled. "Looking for me?"

"She's a _talent scout_ and you, my friend, have talent. She'd like to find all nine of you and sign you up with Eclipse Promotions."

He raises a hand to the back of his neck. "Oh. Well, that was a one-time-only performance."

"Not if Alice can convince you otherwise," I say.

Straightening, he gives me a beautifully stern look. "She can't," he says firmly. "It was only by pure luck that all nine of us could come together like that. They're gone now. Scattered."

"Scattered?" I echo.

"Scattered throughout the world," he says. "We live everywhere. London, Brussels, South America, even Albania."

"Wow," I say. "And you all got together in Los Angeles just to do a one-night-only performance?"

He shrug-nods.

"Why? If you all live so far and wide, why would you get together for just a _day_?"

"Because we could," he says with a smile, and pokes my side.

I'm ticklish, so I flinch away with a yelp.

Alice is not going to be happy about their scattered lives, but I imagine she's going to move heaven and earth to do whatever she can to get them all back together.

He takes one of the canvases from the cart, propping it on the easel and then goes still. It's another abstract – the one of the blue and gray female who's curled in on herself, with her back showing. I've titled it Marikita, because she reminds me of a story I once read about a pixie.

"This is utterly heartbreaking," he says. "It makes me feel as if she hasn't anyone in the world."

I shrug. Yeah, that was what I felt when I painted it over a year ago.

But then he sees the one I did this past Sunday, the one of the girl who might be reaching for the stars. This one, I call Chloe, because she is blooming.

"Now _this _is gorgeous in every sense of the word, Bella. I can actually sense the movement from dark to light. It's so optimistic."

And the look he gives me shoots a lightning bolt through my body.

How does he _do_ that?

The third painting, the one of the woman's face that's half behind a crystal water vase, seems to take him aback. It's the one I did a few weeks ago; the one that resembles my mom, and the two faces I knew of her. I call her Janus, for the beginning and the end of conflict.

"A mini-masterpiece," he murmurs. "The subtleties of clarity versus distortion? And using a naturally beautiful woman to show it. Very clever."

I hope it sells.

I want it gone.

His green eyes are studying me. Looking long and deep into my own, and then dropping to my mouth.

My breathing speeds.

"You have her mouth," he says slowly. "The lady in the painting."

I suck my upper lip in my mouth, as if I could hide it from him, and watch his eyes flare in response.

"Your mother," he murmurs. "She's your mother."

He says that like he knows it to be true, but how can he? Mom had blond hair and blue eyes. I look nothing like her.

"She's no one," I tell him.

But I can tell as I turn away to greet my first visitor that he doesn't believe me. I'm not exactly lying to hide anything, though. I'm just not ready to open that can of worms.

"You're the cartoon lady," the little girl in front of me says. She's the big-nosed Pippi Longstocking lookalike from a few weeks ago. Behind her, a woman wearing a bandanna around her head comes racing up.

I swallow a sigh of frustration. I remember Pippi; her mother all but threw a tantrum when she saw the representation I drew of her.

I couldn't help it – it was a caricature drawing. And Pippi has a distinctive nose.

"Emily, you can't keep running ahead like this. I can't keep up with you! Sorry!" the panting woman says to me with a smile, as she raises a hand to scratch under the bandanna. "She's restless today."

"I want a new picture," Pippi says, and puts her hands on her hips. "This time with a _good _nose."

E bends down to her height. "You already have a good nose. What was wrong with the other one?"

Pippi blinks at him, as does the lady under the bandanna.

And… me, too.

"Mom said it made me look like Pinocchio."

"Well, if the nose fits," Bandanna Lady mumbles, then flashes a grin when Pippi turns to look at her.

"You have a perfect nose," E tells her. "It's long and thin with teardrop nostrils. I wish _my _nose looked like _yours_."

Pippi giggles. She's as taken with him as any female, even though he's lying through his teeth about her rather aquiline-shaped nose.

I smile at Bandanna Lady. "Would you like to—"

"Oh no, no. We have to get going. Her momma is waiting for us to pick up lunch, isn't that right, Em?"

Pippi nods. She's still trading smiles with E. She seems almost transfixed by him.

"I'll see you soon, Emily," he says, and stands. Her eyes follow him all the way up, until her neck is craning.

_He'll see her soon?_

Even as the girl is led away by Bandanna Lady, her face is still turned back towards E.

I look at him askance. "You'll see her soon? You lied to a little girl?"

He's all bashful smiles. "They have to come back this way to leave, right?"

Shaking my head, I prepare my easel for a drawing, and point to the fold-up chair in the cart.

"Sit in it," I tell him. "I'm going to sketch you now."

He places the chair sideways, and then casually poses as The Thinker. I see a couple of people looking at him as they pass, wondering what he's doing, but he's taking the pose seriously. He makes me want to swoon.

E as a caricature drawing is still a thing of beauty. I emphasize his hair, eyebrows and jawline, trying to sketch him in bas relief, but he's still gorgeous. While I'm doing this, a handful of people gather to watch, and to study my paintings.

"How much for the painting of this one?" someone asks.

It's the blue and gray painting of Marikita.

"How much would you pay for it?" I counter. I've had some luck getting more money than I might have, by asking for an opinion about what a person thinks it's worth.

The possible interested buyer is a shrewd-looking, dark haired lady, probably in her forties. She's wearing a blue silk shirt with a pair of Bermuda shorts, and her mouth is pursed in thought.

She'll offer fifty, tops.

"That's my sister, Calliope," E says of the painting. He straightens from his pose to smile at her. "But we just call her Callie. She lives in Athens, Greece, and writes poetry."

I watch the woman's mouth slacken. It's amazing to see the effect he can have on a woman when she's not me.

"_Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks_," E quotes. "Although she didn't write that," he adds. "Plutarch did."

He curls back into his pose.

The woman closes her mouth, then turns back to the painting.

"Five hundred," she says.

And I almost swallow my tongue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter summary:** He makes me feel more wondrously alive than anyone else ever has before.

**Acknowledgements: **BelleBiter is my beta and sounding board, and so much more. This story wouldn't be what it is without her. lotus11 and SunflowerFran are my pre-readers.

**A/N: **There's some sexy-looking Latin in this chapter, all thanks to BelleBiter.

* * *

My stomach is full of knots as I follow E up the sidewalk to the brown and tan-colored house where he lives. Just as he said, it's the last one on the street. A low, black wrought iron fence surrounds the lush yard, which looks as though someone routinely over-waters in spite of California's drought. There's a swing on the front porch, with potted plants and a welcome wreath on the front of the door.

It looks like a family's home.

Even though it felt like he was light years away from me both mentally and physically, now I realize that he's been right down the street from me. And he has been, all along.

I don't know how I feel about that; I'm confused, maybe a bit angry. But I'm also relieved and kind of glad, because it turns out that he's within reach. Now I know where I can find him.

One of the knots in my stomach eases.

We don't take the steps up to the front porch, though. He veers to the right, following red pavers set into the ground to the side of the house, where he stops in front of a weather-beaten, window-paned door. A dead, forlorn-looking potted plant sits just to the left.

So he doesn't have a green thumb. Apparently, he's not good at _everything_.

He turns and flashes me a sheepish smile. "This is me."

But before he opens the door, he pauses and murmurs something too low for me to understand.

And I have to smile, because I'm sure he didn't expect to bring me back here today. Did he leave his place a mess?

"I don't care what it looks like," I say. "I just care that it's yours."

I meant to reassure him, but his back goes stiff – like I've said something wrong – before he slowly, visibly exhales. It makes me want to step closer to him so I can feel his heat, so I can feel the muscles under his skin. His words don't give much away, but his body language is easy enough to read.

What on earth did I say to make him go tense like that?

But then the door is open, and he's urging me inside with a gentle smile. Wrapping my arms around my waist, I step inside. It's cool and dark until we reach the living room – which I see is also his dining room and bedroom.

My stomach drops.

I try to avoid looking at any one thing in particular, while simultaneously trying to take it all in. It's a sparsely decorated studio with white-washed walls and gray tiled floor. There are no wall hangings, no candles, no homey rugs on the floor. It doesn't even look lived in. The windows are high, hiding any outside view, hiding the sun. I don't even see a stove.

And suddenly, my heart jumps into my throat, and I have to blink back my tears.

He's… so incredibly talented. He could be making thousands of dollars a night if he and his group signed with Eclipse… and he's living in someone's spare utility room?

"You live here?" I ask in a voice I barely recognize as my own.

His eyes scold me playfully. "I don't need much, Bella. Especially here in Los Angeles. The beach is just down the street."

My heart feels painfully big in my chest as I look at him. The smile on my mouth trembles, and I have to swallow back the tears again.

I want to hug him. Just hug him.

As we stare at each other, I see him take an unsteady breath before he shrugs helplessly at me. Then he takes a step towards me and stops, brows furrowed, looking uncertain… and almost even scared.

Wanting to touch him feels like a physical ache.

Hesitantly, I take a step closer. "Come with me back to my place. Let me cook you dinner," I say.

"Dinner?" he croaks.

I reach for his hands. Warm, big, they encase mine firmly.

"Whatever you want," I say.

"Peanut butter and jelly?"

I laugh, and his eyes crinkle. "Something better than peanut butter and jelly. How about a juicy steak, baked potatoes and corn on the cob?"

"Yes?" he breathes.

I pull him to me and he comes readily, wrapping his arms around my waist and laying his face against my shoulder. My entire body is a sigh against his. It's an exhilarating relief, and I hold on to him as my head and heart spin.

"You deserve the best," I murmur. "Especially after today. You helped me sell two paintings. It usually takes me months to sell anything."

After a few moments, we pull apart slowly.

"That was nice," he says. His eyes are sleepy looking pools of green that jump-start my pulse. "You may do that any time you like."

I am _so_ his.

We trade soft smiles, and I gently begin swinging our joined hands to and fro. "It's a deal."

**. . .**

Watching E eat is a sensual experience in itself, because he takes it all in with every fiber of his being. He hums as he chews, his beautiful eyes wide and glowing in amazement as he swallows. His eyes continually dart between his plate and my face, as if he can't decide where to look.

Of course, looking the way he does, he could probably arouse me just by brushing his teeth.

"Try a sip of your wine," I tell him.

Bringing the glass to his nose, he inhales. Right after he takes a sip, his face goes blank… and then his expression morphs into delight, and I can't contain my laughter anymore.

"This is all so good," he says.

I'm not the best or the most patient of cooks, but I'd definitely wine and dine him every day just to see his kind of enjoyment. He makes me feel like I can do no wrong. He makes me feel accomplished and beautiful, homey and appreciated.

He makes me feel more wondrously alivethan anyone else ever has before.

Which also makes me feel both terrified and excited.

The sun is steadily crawling across my rust and brown-colored medallion rug in the living room, showering the edge of the table we're eating on with golden rays. I watch it languorously linger before it glides up E's arm, his shoulder, and along the side of his face, until he's completely bathed in it and looking like an angel come to life under its light.

I should get up and go draw the curtains, but find I am rooted to the spot.

"E?"

In the midst of raising the glass of wine to his mouth, he halts and gives me his undivided attention.

"Yes?"

"Who are you?"

He takes another slow sip of wine, then deliberately cuts and forks another bite of steak. His eyes, when he peeks up at me, are bright and intense. Then they dart to my hands, which are wringing together on top of the table.

"I just… I don't feel as if I know you very well, that's all," I add. "And I want to. Know you, that is."

I flush as I realize how suggestive my last words sound, and my gaze drops to his mouth. With that strong, chiseled jaw of his, even chewing looks sexy on him.

"What do you want to know?" he asks lowly, and I see his own gaze drop to my mouth.

It's suddenly hard to breathe.

"Everything," I say. "I want to know your full name, where you grew up, what kind of a kid you were, your least favorite thing to do, who your parents are, if you ever had a pet... just everything."

_And… do you like me the way I like you?_

The sunlight fades, and I see a storm gather in his eyes before he looks away. I suddenly remember how he dislikes direct questions. How he ducks them.

"Please. Aren't you tired of hiding from me?"

He fingers the stem of his wine glass while giving me an intense look that shoots a jolt through my body. Those eyes of his are powerful; they're shimmering and carefree one moment, then inscrutably dark the next. I feel like I'm always reeling from the way he gazes at me.

"I'll answer a question for every question _you _answer," he murmurs. "And I get to go first."

My fork clanks louder than I meant it to against my plate, and I cross my arms. "Why do you get to go first?"

His mouth curves into a delicious grin. "Because this is my idea."

"Drink some more wine," I say. "You need to loosen up a little."

He drains the glass. "I can't get drunk," he tells me, as I pour him a refill.

"Really? Why not?"

"Is that a question?"

"Is _that_?" I parry.

He laughs gently, then pops another bite of steak into his mouth. As he chews, he studies me, until my foot begins to twitch uncontrollably under the table. I feel the worst urge to glance away, but am unable to do so because somehow, he is commanding my gaze.

"Are you ready?" he asks, and his voice is as soft as a caress. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was trying to seduce me.

I have to swallow before I can respond. "Is that your question?"

"You're quick, I'll give you that," he says. For a moment, I think he looks almost regretful. "Alright. If you could bring anyone back to life, who would it be and why?"

_Mom._

My breath catches in my throat, because I didn't mean to think of that. And because his gaze is both sharp and soft, and because he knows exactly what he's doing.

He's trying to knock me off kilter so I won't ask my own questions.

Uncrossing my arms, I take a couple sips of wine to help alleviate the tightness in my throat. Then I have a couple more for courage.

"You don't pull any punches," I say with a sigh. "Fine." And my gaze drops to my plate. I've barely eaten anything, and the wine is warm and singing in my blood.

"I'd bring my mom back because she died too young. Once she found out she had leukemia, it was like all the life went out of her in that moment."

_Thin as a rail, broken-hearted face, soulless eyes. No longer my mom. No longer much of anyone. Just a shell. Just sallow skin pulled tight across jutting bones._

"She accepted it as a death sentence, and she… just gave up. So… I'd want… I'd want to give her another chance."

He's kneeling on the floor beside me, gently taking my cold hand in his.

"I'm so sorry, Bella," he says, and the tender look on his face reaches inside me and squeezes my heart.

But I don't know what he's doing down there. "I'm okay."

Then he's pulling me out of the chair and into his arms, and these weird sounds are coming from deep inside me. They rip up from my chest and through my throat, and they won't stop.

"Th-This wasn't supposed to happen," I stutter-gasp. His arms are hard and tight around me, and just what I need, even though I didn't know I needed him to hug me. Or, that I needed to talk about or cry about Mom. She was supposed to be part of my past. And this pain? I thought I'd dealt with it years ago, but here it is, tearing me the hell apart again.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, and he's rocking us back and forth.

"Please," I choke against his neck. The word comes out just as uncontrollably as the other sounds I'm making. I wish the awful sobs would stop, they're embarrassing me. But at the same time, I don't want him to let me go. My fingers are wound tightly into the fabric of his shirt.

I don't know how long I'm a mess in his arms, but when I finally get control over myself, I'm weak with relief. He's whispering a steady stream of words I don't understand in my ear, still rocking me.

"_Curae leves loquuntur, sed ingentes stupent. Memento creare atque vivere. Vos es non unis. Ego sum hic, mea Bella, ego sum hic."_

The sound of his warm, silken voice is heaven.

I'm melting.

I have to blow my nose.

I sigh and release him reluctantly, and his hands slide down my arms in a slow caress. His face is all beautiful, tender sympathy, and seeing it tightens my throat again. So I push to my feet and run for the bathroom, where I snuff into a Kleenex and splash my face with water. My eyes are red-rimmed and the tip of my nose is pink. I look awful, but I somehow feel lighter.

He's waiting for me outside the door, tall and reassuring. My heart leaps.

"I'm okay now," I tell him, as his hands come to rest on my shoulders. "Really. And I'm sorry about that, but I think you did that on purpose."

Gentle regret washes over his expression. One of his fingers brushes my cheek softly. "I did. And I'm sorry, too, but I needed to hear about your mother. You needed to tell me."

How did he know that? _I _didn't even know it. Sometimes, his perception really scares me.

I take a shaky breath. "And now it's your turn to tell me about _your _mother."

"Fair enough."

He takes my hand and leads me to the couch, where he tugs me down to sit against his side. Since he pulled me sobbing into his arms, he hasn't seemed to want to let go of me. I'm more than okay with that, and snuggle against his warmth with a newly shy smile on my face that I am helpless to erase.

"So. My mother." As he talks, his fingers caress the bare skin on my arm. "If I wanted to find her as a child, I'd just follow the trail of dirt through the house."

I laugh. "What?"

"She spent most of her time—still does, in fact—in the gardens. She was always pulling roots from one pot and squashing them into another. My father calls her a grubby little urchin," he says, and chuckles. "But nothing ever gets past her. She rules the household. Him, too."

For long moments, I daydream about a woman in a garden surrounded by roses, chrysanthemums and daisies, as she pats the earth down around their stems. There's a little copper-haired boy beside her getting ready to drop a worm down the back of her neck.

I giggle and tighten my fingers around his forearm. "She sounds lovely. What kind of a boy were you?"

He gives me a look and taps me on the nose. "Obedient. But very rambunctious and prone to using my status as the youngest to get my way. What kind of a little girl were you?"

I can't look away from his eyes again.

"Shy. Always had a sketchpad in my lap. I used to draw the friends I wished I had. There was Penny the pig, Roxy the hamster, and Stuart the owl. Penny was the brave one, Roxy could run and hide, and Stuart, since he was an owl, was the smart one. He helped me with my spelling."

The tip of his nose brushes against my cheek. "And Bella? Which was she?"

I watch goosebumps rise all along my arm and fight the urge to shiver. If he's not aware of how close we are, or what he's doing, I don't want to remind him.

"Just plain Bella," I say. "Mom used to braid my hair in the morning because otherwise it would just be in my face and get dirty. I was always in the woods behind our house, looking for a real-life Stuart or a Roxy."

"She was a good mom to you?"

I nod. "She was the best. Until…"

Until the day she just couldn't get out of bed because she was too tired. That's when Dad took her to the doctor and they found out she had leukemia. I was ten years old when our positions kind of reversed, and I took over caring for Mom during the summer months. I did the laundry, made the meals, and held her when she got sick and cried.

And Dad held me.

I tried to hold him back, but I knew even then that it wasn't the same for him. His wife was still alive, but she was already gone, and his little girl had to be the brave one.

"You're beautiful and strong," E says. "You can do anything. You believe that, don't you, Bella?"

It's hard for me to accept compliments, and I want to look away from him, but he doesn't allow me to. His hand reaches out to tilt my chin up, and those eyes of his, they're dark and fierce now.

I turn red and swallow. "Sometimes," I say.

"Would you do something for me?"

His fingers are dangerously close to my mouth. Mere inches separate us. Is he going to kiss me?

_Please kiss me._

"Bella?"

"Yes?"

"If I asked you to draw your mother's spirit, would you?"

I blink.

He's not going to kiss me.

"What?"

"When you remember the best of your mother, what colors do you see in your mind?"

"I… I don't know."

His fingers leave my skin and my face lurches an inch forward before I catch myself.

"Think about her. Okay? I want to see her spirit as you see it. I want you to paint it."

I'm this side of disappointed and taken aback. He wants me to paint my mom's _spirit_? Nobody's ever asked such a thing of me before.

"You want me to paint her spirit?"

Seeing my hurt and confusion, he brings both hands to frame my face. "Yes. I want you to paint your mother's spirit. For me."

"Okay," I breathe shakily. "Will you please kiss me now?"

His eyes crinkle with laughter, and he brings his face closer to mine, until his warm lips touch my cheek. A tingle of awareness shoots through my body, even though his lips aren't exactly where I'd hoped they'd be.

"Paint me the picture," he whispers. "And I'll kiss you."

_Blackmail._

I exhale in disappointment, and he brings me close in a hug. Sagging against him, I breathe him in. He's all sunshine and clouds and stars.

What a day of ups and downs this has been. My body feels like it's been strapped to a roulette wheel and spun round and round. I'm still not exactly sure which way I'm facing yet.

Shortly thereafter, he leaves, but not before touching all exposed areas of my skin. My arms, my hands, my face. He even brushes his thumb against the pulse in my neck.

He's driving me insane.

**. . .**

I'm out on the balcony late Sunday afternoon, during the time of day when everything is showered with a dusty, golden cast. _Teardrop _by Massive Attack is playing on my iPhone when the colors and shapes suddenly burst into my mind. They hit so suddenly that I drop my cup of coffee at my feet.

The beginning heartbeats of the song are rings of pink that gradually grow darker and wider as the beats go on. When the singer begins, I see a sunburst of texturized aquamarine against midnight. Smaller beats of silver, white and lime land with little pings on the sheet in my head. There is a flame behind long teardrops on fire, dripping their colors, leaving shimmering arcs of pale silver-blue behind.

Then it all disappears in the dark, just like the singer says. The edges of my sheet turn black, slowly encroaching on the colors in a reverse blast.

It's Mom. Shining so bright, so on fire with life until the black fear came and turned everything dark.

And I stand from where I'm sitting, suddenly galvanized to capture it all.

**. . .**

I paint the canvas black. It's going to be the first color, not the last.

Never the last again.

Because it _is_ my choice.

* * *

Translation of what E said to Bella:

_"Slight griefs talk, but great ones are speechless. Remember that you have to create and to live. You are not alone. I am here, my Bella, I am here."_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter summary:** Don't you want to be real to someone?

**Acknowledgements: **Thank you times 23 to Sunflower Fran and Capricorn75, who pre-read for me; and to Twilly and Winterhorses for the powerhouse word challenge sessions.

BelleBiter is my beta and sounding board, and so much more. This story wouldn't be what it is without her.

It really wouldn't.

**A/N: **I might've had a screwdriver or two while writing this one.

* * *

I drop my brush into a jar of turpentine and stumble back to stare at what I've painted.

Something entirely alien.

For the first time, what I've created is not anything specific - there is nothing resembling a human on the canvas, no setting moon between the leaves of a palm tree, no definable subject that makes any sense. It's just… an amalgamation of colors and shapes and movement that came out as a ricochet medley at the time.

I've painted a _feeling_, and that's something I've never done before.

My mouth quivers as I stare at the wild swirls of paint movement, the concentration of blue, gold and rose, intersected by sharp, jagged edges of silver that scratch wildly at the colors. It's unbridled energy, an inherent aversion to normality, a live heartbeat on the page.

It's Mom.

It's everything she made me feel, what I saw in her smile, her sheer delight in life… and then her rapid decline, as the light seemed to leave her eyes; a liquid splash of color once so dense and bright, softly dissipating into muted shades from the vibrant center.

It hurts to see it. To see _her. _And it's terrifying, because I almost shouldn't have this power to lay a person so bare for just anyone to see, should I? It's not right. If someone painted me like this, I would feel exposed, looking at myself turned from the inside out.

Suddenly, the notes and beats of the song playing on my iPod take over in my mind. Each sound of the piano key is a shooting star into the percussion of a small flower blast of black-tinged red, which grows bigger and emits sparks against a mirrored wall as the two sounds eventually converge.

I yank the phone out of the stereo dock, knocking over my water bottle onto an open book of illustrations, and then my hands are cradling my head. The visual onslaught of color and shapes is making me almost nauseated. I don't know how I even made it this far through the painting, or why.

The clock shows it's past two in the morning, which means I've been painting since dusk. I skipped dinner, so maybe that's why I feel sick, why my head feels like it's two sizes too big.

I'm used to losing big chunks of time when I paint, but nothing like the crazy images I saw over the past few hours has ever ripped through my mind before. I've never felt the urgency to create what just _had_ to come out. Or like my brush strokes weren't close enough, or fast enough… my fingers flying up to the canvas to feel, to blend and shape. To try to capture whatever it was before it was gone forever.

Now I feel like my body has been used and discarded – possessed without being asked – by an unrestrained spirit. My feet are bare, and move across the hard wood slowly. I need to shower, or at least wash my hands. But I need to sleep more.

Me and my dirty hands fall onto my bed with a groan, and then I'm out.

**. . .**

"Bella! Bella!"

The sound of Alice's voice knocks me right off of a Cool Whip heavenly cloud into earthly reality. It's bright when my eyes open, and for a moment, I see stars circling my friend's dark head.

"What?" I croak.

"I just got back from New York, and I want to celebrate. Get up," she says, and flips the covers off of me.

I groan. "What time is it?"

"It's almost eleven, lazy bones."

She's practically vibrating with energy and vitality.

I pull the pillow over my head, but it's ripped off just as quickly.

"_You _are a genius," she says.

This is news. I squint up at her in confusion. "I am?"

"As if you don't know," she scoffs. "The painting? That spectacularly gorgeous explosion of color in your studio? It's amazing, Bella. It's like an Alexander McQueen design on canvas."

"You saw it? Alice, you know you're not supposed to go in there without me," I gripe, as I throw my legs over the side of the bed.

She crosses her arms and gives me a bitch brow. "You left the door open. And the lights on. I stuck my head in to turn them off, and that painting was right there. It sucked the breath out of me."

I slump. She wasn't snooping, then. Besides, I know Alice well enough to know she'd never touch anything. But it still makes me feel scared and vulnerable that she was in that room without me.

"It sucked the breath out of me, too," I say with a sigh. "I almost got sick to my stomach after I finished it."

She uncrosses her arms and sits on the bed beside me. "What do you mean, you almost got sick? Did you forget to eat again?"

"No. I mean, yes. No, it was just after dark when I started. And… there were these images and colors inside my head. They kept moving and changing and charging at me point-blank, and I think they stretched out my brain or something."

"Maybe you got a migraine?"

I shake my head. "No, my head just felt awfully full. And… different, afterwards."

She rubs my back. "Well, whatever it was that stretched out your head, it's wonderful. That work is… I don't even have the words, because I'm not an art critic. But I've never seen anything quite like that before; it's a rarity, and that's what can hook a buyer."

I'm ten shades of skeptical. She's always loved my work and praised me. That's probably all she's doing this time, too. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so. Stop doubting me. I really did mean it when I said that painting knocked the breath out of me. I was stunned into silence – _me _– for a good two minutes. You need to do another one like it – maybe this time with a nod to a classic rebel like Coco Chanel… or Yves St. Laurent?"

Then she stands, yanking me up with her. "You need an agent!"

"I need to take a shower," I say, and back away.

"Fine. I'll make us some sandwiches for lunch."

I take my time in the shower, letting the warm water pour over my head and shoulders. It's wonderful, and I can feel my body loosening and relaxing. My head gets closer to normal inside again, and the sound of the water is lulling and soothing.

I wonder what E is doing, if he's thinking about me, and the kiss he promised me. What if, at this very moment, he was showering, too? The thought brings my hands up to my breasts, and I pretend they're his. My back arches as I picture his face, his eyes at half-mast and dark with want. I'm aching deep inside now, and it almost hurts.

Damn, I want so much more from him than just a kiss.

His hands – I want them everywhere. His fingers – I want them right _there_. I rest my foot on the corner of the tub. Soon, I'm itching and swollen and panting, chasing the feeling down. It's been so long, and I need this more than anything. It's deep in my stomach, and it's hot, and my fingers are sliding against silky wetness, so easily, so fast, and I'm almost there.

_Just a little harder, E. _

And I imagine his long fingers pressing deeper, and harder, and I shatter. It's so strong that my knees almost buckle, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from groaning. Then, still shaking, I rest my shoulder against the shower tile and catch my breath.

Wow. I feel better now.

But then - almost immediately - I feel kind of empty, because it wasn't E's fingers that just gave me an orgasm.

And I wish it had been.

I towel off and stare at the condensation-covered mirror. I touch the tip of my finger to the glass and draw a labyrinth, until the whole mirror is one big unending line. I see glimpses of my face in the broken lines that are starting to run, and snarl at the mirror. A bright mosaic of a girl snarls back at me, mysterious, peeking out between the cracks.

I should paint that.

Alice is setting plates on the table as I walk into the dining room. She's not much into cooking, but it looks like she's put together a killer sub with whatever she's found in the fridge, and my stomach growls in anticipation.

"I heard that," she says.

"Great," I retort. "That means there's nothing wrong with your hearing."

But I can't stop the moan I make when I take my first bite. It's thick-sliced, smoked deli ham with sharp cheddar cheese on French bread, tangy with mustard and crunchy with fresh lettuce.

"I'm worried about you," she says.

"Wha?"

"You haven't been yourself lately. You're either moping silently around the place, or painting obsessively like you've just taken a hit of crack."

"Like _you'd_ know_," _I say, after I swallow my bite. "Neither of us have ever done crack in our lives."

She glowers at me. "You're deflecting."

I'm chewing again. I took an extra big bite because I need time to think; I don't know how to answer her question. I'm up, or I'm down. I'm off, or I'm on. But I've learned that I can keep going long after I thought I couldn't. So… I'm just trying to do that, until I can figure out why I have the feeling that I've lost something.

I know it has to do with E. And it's not just because I like him more than I should; there's more there. Something in his eyes, in the way he's suddenly more touchy-feely with me, yet still unattainable. But at the same time, he seems so familiar to me… like a memory I need to feel comfortable about again.

It feels as if I'm always on the edge of a déjà vu moment lately, and it's maddening.

"I know I've been gone a lot lately, and I'm sorry," she begins, but I hold my hand up.

"Alice, no. It's not your job to look after my wellbeing. You have a life, and I'm thrill-"

"Is that it?" she butts in. "You don't feel like _you _have a life?"

I put my sandwich down. "No, that's not it."

_That's part of it._

"I just… I feel like I'm in some sort of limbo, okay? I really don't like my job, but I can't support myself doing what I love." I sigh and shrug. "And then there's E, and how he makes me feel."

She perks up.

"Like I'm on a see-saw," I clarify.

"Are you falling in love with him?" she asks gently.

Her question sends a zing of fear right into my stomach. I drop my gaze to my plate, and idly note how the colors of the chips pop against the green pickle.

And I can't talk because my mouth has gone dry.

"You are," she whispers.

I don't really even know him. How can I be falling in love with him?

"When am I going to get to meet this guy?" Alice asks.

I jab at one of the chips and it crunches into pieces.

"Want to go for a walk after we eat?"

She levels a look at me, but her face is contorting as she chews, so it looks odd. "We're going to find this guy while walking?"

"We're going to walk over to his place," I say and take a bite of the pickle. "And yes, you're going to meet him."

_No more hiding, E._

She squeals and damn near chokes on the food in her mouth.

Alice finishes in record time, but I seem to have lost my appetite, so I wrap the rest of my sandwich up for later.

As we walk across to Dell Avenue and then up to Court E, I'm nervous about just showing up at E's place unannounced, yet filled with resolve that I'm going to do it anyway.

E lives on Court E, I think. How appropriate.

Alice is aghast. "So he's been right here all along?"

"Seems like," I say.

But he didn't want to tell me where he lived.

"And you've _known_ this?"

"No," I say with a sigh. "But I did mention to him that you're looking for him and the rest of his group."

"And?"

"And I'm sorry, Alice, but he was pretty clear that the performance was a one-time-only thing."

"Nope," she says, and she's adamant. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

I duck my head and smile.

Because she'll find out.

There's a lady under a straw hat tending to the house's front garden when we arrive. She's on her knees, with a tray full of new flowers on the ground beside her, when she notices us coming up the walk.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"Hi," I say. "I'm Bella and this is Alice. We're here to see E."

She stands and wipes the palms of her hands against the gardening apron she's wearing, and her brow is furrowed.

"E?"

"Your tall, gorgeous, copper-haired tenant," I say, and gesture towards the right, where E lives.

"I don't have a tenant," she says. "You sure you have the right house, hon?"

I glance away from her confused face to take a second look at the swing on the porch. The same welcome wreath is hanging on the door.

"Yes, this is the right house," I say slowly. "We were just here this past Thursday."

Three days ago.

But she's shaking her head at me. "I just got back from Washington yesterday. I wasn't home on Thursday."

And I'm reeling. Surely I've misheard her.

"Wait. You were here this Thursday?" she asks me. "At my house?"

"Y-You don't have a spare room off the side there?" I stammer.

"I do, but it's not habitable." And now she's frowning at me, looking at me with suspicious eyes. "How do you know that?"

Alice's fingers wrap around my forearm as I step backwards, crushing her toes.

"He… he showed me this past Thursday," I say thinly, as my eyes dart around at her porch, at the garden, at the pavers we followed to the room where E said he lived.

_Just three days ago._

The woman turns and starts walking down the pavers. Confused, I watch her go, then I follow her, and Alice follows me.

And I'm walking like this is all just another dream I'll wake up from.

The woman is wearing khaki shorts that hit at the back of her knee, and sneakers that used to be white, but are now gray. She doesn't have socks on.

How can you wear sneakers without socks?

When we come to the side door with its dead potted plant, she produces a jangling key ring from her apron pocket. It takes her a little while to find the right one; I'm ready to scream by the time she tries it a third time.

"No one's been in here for months," she tells us as she pushes against the door.

It sticks. Apparently the painted wood door has expanded, and it won't budge against her weight.

"Can I try? Please?"

Because I have to see.

She gives me a long look, torn between suspicion and concern, then she steps aside. And my hand and shoulder are against the door, and I'm pushing and shoving, then backing up to throw my weight against it.

It cracks open with a loud squeak, and I stumble just inside the room.

The musty scent of dust and disuse hits my nose, but I hardly notice it as my eyes take in an assortment of cardboard boxes, old pieces of wood, and a rusty, wrought iron room divider propped up against it all.

"My husband keeps meaning to clean out this room, but he hasn't gotten to it yet," the woman says. Her voice sounds far away and tinny.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, but I say it only to myself.

This has to be a mistake.

"You see, hon? Nobody here. You must've been next door. Vera has a back room that she occasionally rents out. You might check with her."

I turn with a jerk and see the house next door. It's a red and black ranch-style.

_He didn't take me there. He brought me here._

It doesn't make sense.

But I have to nod. Pretend that I just got confused. And somehow get out of here.

The woman is looking at me like I'm one pancake short of a stack.

And honestly, I feel that way.

I'm all inside out; my bright curves are turning into hard edges, shattering like glass, leaving behind shards sharp enough to cut.

"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding," I say, and then I'm turning and tripping on my own feet in my haste to get away.

Because I know it's not merely some mistake.

I head back over to the sidewalk behind the row of houses where we live, and I'm running full out down Carroll Canal Walk where I first saw E jogging that morning.

That beautiful liar.

"Bella!" Alice is somewhere behind me.

But my anger and confusion gives me all this energy, and I have to run and run, or I'll scream.

"Just let me go," I cry. "I'll explain later."

If I can.

_He lied to me. _

_He lies to me again and again._

_But why?_

_It doesn't matter._

_You can't trust a liar._

_Get out now while you still can._

I run until I can't anymore, until another step would bring me to my knees. I've gone a circuit inside the canal, and I'm on the opposite side from home. Tears of exertion fill my eyes as I bend at the waist with my hands on my thighs, panting.

A pair of black Nikes enter my field of vision, and I straighten with a gasp.

It's E.

He's beautiful, striking as ever, his hair a fiery halo.

_Face of an angel, soul of a deceiver._

His eyes are soft, hesitant. "Bella?"

"You just love making a fool out of me, don't you?" I bite out unsteadily.

I can't look at him. He makes me want to cry. Plus, I feel the worst urge to hit him.

How could he do this to me?

"You're no one's fool," he says softly, and takes another step near me.

I straighten with a hiss. "Right. That's why you lie about your name, what you do for a living, and _where you live_," I grit.

His eyes flash with anger and regret. "There's a reason why I can't tell you the truth," he says.

"Well, you can just _keep_ your truth, then. This is the end of it. Your lies make me sick. I've had enough of them. Stay _away_ from me."

And I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm.

I ball my hands into fists and swing the free one at his chest.

"Let me go. You don't care about me, you've made that clear. Let _go_!"

But he captures my swinging hand, and then he jerks me against him. His other hand raises to my head, cupping my face and chin.

"You don't know anything," he growls, and I swear his eyes turn violet before his mouth is against mine, sweet, insistent, probing. The sting of surprise and anger is still running through my blood, but this is what I've wanted for so long that it hurts to get it now. I feel myself sob, and I'm crying and moving my mouth against his desperately, and he seems just as hungry as I am. He moves his arms tight around my upper body, and he's solid and real.

"Bella," he breathes. "You don't know."

Stiffening, I bring my arms up between us, my palms against his chest, and push him away.

"Stop it! You can't just kiss me like that, not when the only things I _do_ know about you are lies!"

There are tears on his cheeks, too, and he gazes at me openly, unashamed of his emotions. It takes me by surprise. He won't even tell me his real name, so how can he look at me that way?

"You know more about me than anyone else ever has," he says.

I scoff. "That's not real much," I say. "Every time I think you're leveling with me, I find out that it's another lie. How can you even live that way? Don't you ever want to be real to someone?"

He captures my wrists in gentle hands, even though I try to pull away.

"You," he whispers, and his tone is one of pain. "I want to be real to you."

But I'm shaking my head at him. "You're not, though. You're not. You _can't _be. So I want you to leave me alone. We have no future together, and I can't – _won't_ – keep doing this with you."

His fingers tighten around my wrists, and I have to look away from his anguished expression.

"I help you," he says, and I hear the desperation in his voice. It matches the ache in my soul.

"You break my heart," I say, and the words come out all jerkily because my breath is coming in uneven pants. "I can't let you do it anymore."

I pull my arms free, and he stands there with his hands still raised and grasping at air.

I take a step back from him, then two more. He watches me with disbelief in his eyes, and his breathing is as uneven as mine.

It almost looks like his heart is breaking, too.

"You don't have a choice," he says. "You can't hide from me. No one can."

I swallow past the knife of pain in my throat. "Well, I may not know who you really are, but I know you're not God. And you only have the control I allow you to have."

"No, _I_ have the control," he says illogically.

I see him through the film of gathering tears. "Not anymore," I whisper, blinking furiously. "Goodbye, E."

There's anguish and horror in his eyes, but how can he possibly feel that way if I'm not even worth the truth? How could he not know that something like this was eventually going to happen?

He must see or finally understand something in my expression, because his beautiful face falls. Needle pins of pain pierce my heart at the look of devastation he wears.

And then suddenly, he turns and runs away from me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter summary:** The Muses have their jobs to do on Earth, and that's that.

**Acknowledgements: **It's all BelleBiter this time. She talked me through hula hoops, walking the balance bar, and evading the fire breathers.

**A/N: **I got choked up when I wrote this one.

* * *

He runs until he hits the whooshing traffic on Venice Boulevard, with its honking cars and heavy scent of smog and exhaust. Loud, chaotic, ugly, it rivals the turmoil in his heart. He knows he should go home, back to the mountain in the clouds and his peaceful retreat. Yet the thought of leaving Bella now is anathema.

The street eventually turns to join Ocean Front Walk, and all its sidewalk denizens; less chaotic, but no less colorful. Wide, staring eyes follow him as he passes, and he knows he is running faster than he should. It's not quite quick enough to leave his soul print behind, but is fast enough to keep anyone from approaching him.

Fast enough to hide the expression on his face, and the tears he knows he's shedding.

How could this happen to him?

Archaic child and benighted fool in one, he thought he'd had all the answers. That he was enough to take care of what he had to – with no illusions, no attachments, no failings. Over the centuries, it had all seemed so absurdly easy, really. His heart had never needed anything or anyone.

Until now. Until _her_. This surprisingly talented mortal with her dark, questioning eyes that reach past his placid pallor to touch something deep inside of him.

The cold swoosh of the Pacific Ocean's water rushes and curls against his ankles as he runs across the wet sand, a small tendril of the tidal wave of emotion inside his soul. For the first time he can remember, someone wants more from him than just mental stimulation. More than just his face and his body. And he can't give it to her. If he does, he'll lose her. He'll lose all traces of her memory when his father makes him drink from the river of lost memories.

But she would carry the reminder of him for the rest of her days. In a sea of days upon years, he will be the someone she lost. Or worse.

In his mind's eye, he sees her expression falling, those beautiful and bottomless eyes welling with tears, the tremble of her mouth. The memory of it finally stops him in his tracks, where he turns to face the ocean's wind head-on. It whips his hair back and stings the moisture at the corner of his eyes.

Dear gods! The ache was only building in strength.

He who knew no time had wasted his with her, not realizing or recognizing his growing feelings until it was too late; he'd never had anything to compare them to. And now look where he was. And where she was.

What could he do?

Falling in love with a mortal was forbidden. It was punishable by loss of memory… with the stinging realization beforehand that you were forever losing the future of that love as well. And from what you may have created anew, all the way up to the ancient remains of a god in heaven – doomed never again to remember the promise of finding divinity on earth.

It was an occurrence he witnessed Erato go through at least once a century. The first time he'd seen it happen, it had been devastating to see his favored sister in such a state. Broken, no longer proud and at ease with her place in their world. No longer caring to inspire anyone to do the impossible – she had only cared about the impossible for herself – for Father to let her go, once and forever, altogether.

E had sworn never to fall into the same trap. He never wanted to be so unutterably desperate that his father would need to make him drink from the Lethe.

Now it seemed as if he were standing at its edge.

He didn't _want _to forget Bella. He wanted what she wanted – to love freely – to share everything he was and knew with her. Without her, the next decades looked bleak.

But the price was too high.

A pair of seagulls circled above his head, their cries shrill and unwittingly stirred up by his emotions. He called to a nearby school of halibut, diverting the gulls, and saying a quick apology to the fish.

His lost memories wouldn't be fair to Bella. He couldn't leave her behind, not when this was all his fault.

Such a thing had never bothered him before. While mortals could be diverting amusements, he had been attracted, both mind and body, to many women throughout the ages. And he'd made love with more than a few, but his deeper feelings had never been engaged.

He fisted his hair. So what was it about _this_ girl? She was no more beautiful than countless others, no more or less accomplished, or intelligent.

Ah, but no. He can't compare her to any of the others, because she was simply her own person.

She was more. There was something about her that called to him. Something in how she met his gaze, setting his pulse into hyper-activity; something in the way she always spoke straight from her heart. Maybe it was the way her smiles came so rarely, so that he knew when she did smile, she meant it.

Whatever it was that was uniquely her, it affected him more than any other mortal ever had.

He wanted to withdraw less often with her, and he kept his gaze turned her way when they were apart. Home – up high in the clouds with its perpetual blue skies, sweet honeyed breezes, and every flower known to man – was less and less appealing without her.

The wind kept sending the water like a wave-storm at his knees.

It might have been his father, sending a warning of reckoning.

Growling, he kicked back, lost his footing, and fell to his knees. Welcoming the cold water, he bent over and dug his fingers into the shifting sand.

Zeus would not be so forgiving a second time, were he to reveal his true nature to Bella again. He would be punished, and Bella would be punished, even though she was blameless. Memory wiping was distressful the first time because it left uneasy feelings; but the second time marked the beginning of nightmares.

Mnemosyne would fight for him, as she had done for Erato before… but in the end, it wouldn't matter. This wasn't merely some father who might uphold the rules for a son; this was his father _The Ruler of All the Gods_ who would command his son and subject. And Zeus' word was law.

He had never given in.

He never would.

His children – _no_, his Muses – had their job to do on Earth, and that was that.

A desperate cry rose in his throat. Because he was out far enough not to be heard, he let it out.

It was a sound that would have terrified a mortal.

**. . .**

My eyes are sore and heavy when I enter my studio later that night, as I walk over to the portrait I did of E. Whenever I'm in this room, I am aware of this painting, as if it's alive and watching me. In a sense, it's almost like having E here with me. As if his encouragement and guidance is a living embrace. And I liked the idea of his eyes on me.

But now I'm feeling vulnerable.

The painting is still set up on an easel in the corner, and when I come to a stop in front of it, my face is level with his. His gaze sears into mine. My skin prickles as if he's really standing there, and my heart pounds.

_Traitorous heart. _

I press my hand against my chest where it hurts, and rub.

Now I can see that I didn't capture the mysterious depth of his eyes at all; Painting E has the guileless, crystalline gaze of someone who couldn't possibly tell a lie. There are no secrets there, just an open invitation of joy. Nowhere do I see the cloudy darkness that I saw today. Those eyes are too perfect, too striking.

Nobody should be this beautiful.

His mouth gently curves, bringing up the dimple in his right cheek, and my chest twinges again. Subtle shadows give even more depth to those ridiculous cheekbones of his, making his jaw appear impossibly strong. I can't look at the painting without thinking about how that jaw would taste against my lips and tongue…

Painting E is so life-like that I keep expecting to see his mouth continue the almost smile.

But he's not real.

Clenching my teeth, I take a breath and turn away. Uncapping tubes of yellow, green, blue, and red, I squeeze a bit from each of them onto a palette. My movements are stiff and hard, and I almost lose my brush more than once as I mix the vibrant colors together into a greyish shade of mud.

The first stroke is going to go straight across his liar's eyes.

And I raise my hand to do just that, but my arm is shaking almost spasmodically. My breaths are coming out in gasps, as if I've just run a race. Beyond the muddied tip of my paint brush, I see those smiling, beautiful eyes of his. The hand he seems to be raising, telling me to stop.

My heart feels like it's caving in on itself.

Shuddering, I jerk my head to the side. I've got my palette in one hand and the brush in another, but my body isn't cooperating with what my brain wants to do.

Or what I thought I wanted to do.

Whatever else he might be, E was like a god come to life for me, radiating beauty from the inside out – my soul sang when I was with him. I willingly embraced the idea of the impossible, because something about him made it easy for me to do. And like nothing else before it, I craved the idea of that promise: that I could be more than who I was just yesterday. That _we _could be more.

At a loss, I shake my head at him. At the painting. At _myself_.

Even though it feels as if he's destroying me, I can't do the same to this painting. It's not alive, but somehow, it's _him_.

And I can't do it.

"Let me go," I cry jaggedly to Painting E. "Please."

_I won't let you go._

His voice is in my head, the tone so clear and mellifluous that I gasp, turn, and drop my paint brush.

There's no one in the room but me.

"E?" I whisper.

I'm not sure what I expected to happen, but the answering silence is crushing.

As I turn back to face Painting E again, I feel like I'm losing my mind. Since I watched him run away from me hours ago, I haven't been able to breathe right. My chest feels too heavy, and as if the slightest touch will break me apart.

Setting the palette down, I wrap my arms around my midriff. Squeezing myself in a hug that I wish, _oh how I still wish_, was coming from him.

Then, for some reason, I notice his upraised hand – the one that's facing palm-out. Like he wants to push against some kind of boundary, to escape from the painting's surface.

One of my arms uncurls and, slowly, I raise my hand to press my palm against his. Because I created him true-to-size, I move my fingers to fit against each one of his. Under my touch, the canvas grows warm.

The feeling of his palm against mine is suddenly intense, the sight of our hands pressed together bringing an eerie sense of déjà vu. Of him, of me. Of the idea that our hands caressed each other. The sensation fills my entire body like a bolt of lightning, the power of it making me stagger back from the painting, making me gasp in surprise.

_When was this?_

I'm suddenly fighting tears over this lovely, tender moment that I can't even remember. It makes me draw my hand back and slap at the painting in frustration.

_What has he done to me?_

The easel topples back, then it and the painting slide down the wall to the floor.

And so do I.

**. . .**

At work the next day, I sit in my office chair and stare unblinking at a spreadsheet of numbers. They won't stop blurring together. I'm supposed to be going over the data for April, but I keep getting sidetracked by the sound of the copy machine, the clicking of my keyboard, by someone clearing their throat.

By the ache in my chest.

Because I didn't feel like listening to music this morning, the silence is deafening. It's kind of driving me crazy, so I change my mind and bring up the music app on my phone. But I only end up knocking it and my phone over the side of my desk to the floor with a crash.

When I take my hands away from my face, I see Angela peering around the corner of my cube.

"Bella? Are you all right?"

She's my supervisor, and she is all business, all the time.

It sobers me up fast, and I straighten in my chair with a jerk.

"Sorry, I turned around too fast and knocked my phone off the desk."

Over the top of her eyeglasses, she raises one of her eyebrows at me. "And you're fighting tears because… ?"

I suddenly remember how she likes to eat people who giggle, lie, or mess up for breakfast – only to spit them out at lunchtime.

"I, er, hit my funny bone," I say and rub at it energetically.

She looks sardonic, then dismissive. "Well, for your sake, I sure hope your _funny bone _stays where it's supposed to."

I shrug, then awkwardly flap my arms for good measure. "I'm a klutz. You know this." And I bend down to retrieve my phone and the dock.

She doesn't move while I place the dock back on the desk where it belongs, and I'm uncomfortably aware of her stare. It's difficult to act matter-of-fact and business-like when it feels like my insides have crumbled, but somehow, I manage to do it.

I'm straightening the photo frames on my desk when Angela speaks again.

"Your work is exemplary, Bella. And I can tell you need a break. You're past due for vacation, so I think you should take a week. Effective tomorrow, as long as you get me those numbers for April."

I gape at her.

She glares at me in response. "When my best employee lies to me face-to-face, it's time for a change of scenery. You obviously need one."

Her face softens only for an instant before she turns to leave.

"Numbers first."

By twelve thirty-five, I'm walking through the outside breezeway to my car. As I approach the gap that overlooks the fountain, my steps slow. Dwindle. Stop.

As is mostly the case in Los Angeles, the day is sunny and pleasantly warm. On the fourth floor courtyard overlooking the fountains, I feel a gentle breeze kiss my face when I peek over the edge of the wall. Below, the fountains arch up in a spray of red water, fall sharply, and then arch up into blue as the lights below change. I'm staring at the design of the concrete, listening in a dream-like state to the soothing sound of the water hitting the pavement, when I suddenly notice that the water has turned violet.

Which doesn't make sense. The Pacific Design Center's colors are blue, green and red.

I gasp and lean across the edge of the wall, somehow knowing that the violet color means E is close. It's his color.

But my mind is flying in all directions at once and seeing nothing, or maybe seeing something that isn't there at all, just because I want to see it so badly.

Below, on the steps surrounding the fountain, people sit, chatting and eating lunch. On the far right, at the beginning of the promenade with its trim bushes, is where I sat the day E found me.

"_A dollar for your thoughts," he'd said._

My eyes close tightly, then open and picture the scene – me and him – as we must have looked to someone standing up here at the time.

Me: wide-eyed and painfully in awe at the unbelievably beautiful man at my side. Him: suave and smiling, an unexpected meteorite come to earth.

I look for such a couple now.

Surely they exist; we can't be the only two?

But I don't find anyone.

Not even close.

Which is as it should be.

Because the two of _us_ don't exist.

And violet is an ugly color.

It is an ugly color that breaks my heart.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter summary:** I keep seeing my face in different times, in places where I've never been; I have these memories that I shouldn't have.

**Acknowledgements: **Thank you, as always, to BelleBiter for asking the right questions at just the right time. And to Winterhorses for unexpectedly providing the linchpin. I couldn't have written this one without either of you. Thanks also goes to Sandprincess for her review last chapter, which gave me quite an idea...

**A/N: **Last, but not LEAST, thank you to Tinie432 for the wonderful Chit-Chat Spot she featured for me and GeekChic12. You can find it at adifferentforest dot net Campfires slash 31397

* * *

The first thing I do on my unexpected vacation is to walk along Venice Beach at the dawn of the next day.

Step by step, I am chasing away another night of disturbing dreams.

It's just me, the water, the wind… and the sun, as it peeks over the edge of the palm trees. My house key is tucked inside my bra, my cell phone in a pocket at my waist, my heavy heart locked down firmly. In my right hand is a bottle of mace that Dad sent last week. He sends a new one every six months.

In my present mood, I wouldn't hesitate for a second if someone gave me cause to use it.

I veer off the boardwalk onto the sand, toward the ocean, heading into the brunt of the wind. There are a few other people out, but they stay on the boardwalk because down at the water's edge, the wind is so fierce that it can sting. Today is no exception; the farther I walk, the more staggered my footsteps grow due to its force. A single brave jogger is running along the shore away from me, heading towards the sun.

I take off my sandals once I reach the water. The sand is flat, hard and cold, but as the water recedes, it takes a bit of it from under my feet, unbalancing my steps. The wind is an underlying roar that peaks and wanes in intensity, an ever present din that steals my thoughts, hurling them somewhere behind me.

It's perfect.

I feel as if I could walk like this forever. Just leave all thoughts behind as I head into the wind, my hair unbound and waving behind me like a flag, uncaring of where I'm going, but ever moving forward. Slowly, though, because the wind and sand are taking turns pushing and pulling at my steps.

But the prickly sense of déjà vu is catching up again, hitting at the back of my heels, even when I pick my feet up and stagger-run, clumsy, with the wind searing the moisture from my throat.

I've been here before.

On this beach, carrying my sandals on the crook of my finger, and feeling this certain pain of not knowing what or who to believe. The early sun in my eyes, all crowded inside, numb on the outside, running and almost falling to my knees, looking at the sky as if searching for answers.

I don't know how I know this; I only understand that it's true, as the thought blossoms like black ink in my soul.

My foot slaps against the sand, and I feel it in my bones.

_She _feels it in _her_ bones.

I am breathing like a fireplace bellows, the cries I can't hear catching up inside my mind, reverberating, like a chorus of women crying, crying.

The sense that I've done a thing before has never been this powerful or this painful. I'm blinded by it, my steps going nowhere as my mind plays the rippling image of my face when I lean across a pond, my head covered with a veil that I somehow know is a hijab.

"The future comes like death without you," the girl with my eyes says to the water in Arabic.

_Without E._

Laughing as the battleship replica in my powdered pompadour gets caught in his cravat.

Dancing the waltz, our bodies briefly touching, my silk gown swinging around my legs. I'm shaming my mother, but I don't care, I don't care.

My fingers trembling as I try to tie the strings of a bonnet. But I can't, so he does it, his touch deliberately close against my skin.

"Why can't you stay with me?" I ask.

And his face, as it falls, his mouth gray and turned down at the corners. "It is not allowed."

He and I standing together, smiling at our reflections in a storefront window, me with my hair bobbed and my scandalous shortened flapper dress with the dropped waist, him in his short suit jacket and jaunty straw boater.

"Je t'adore. Toujours," I say to him.

And then looking down at my granny heels shyly, as we walk down the dusty driveway of my parent's house.

He's beside me, holding my hand with one of his, while the other steadies his bike. And then, because I won't look at him, he lets the bike fall to the grass, and he chases me.

It's a very short chase in my heels. Plus, I want him to catch me.

On and on, these snapshots of life come, zipping through my mind almost too fast to follow. The feeling the images leave is clear and constant, though: my empty arms, a heavy chest, heartbreak, loss.

_For E_.

He is always there. In the back of my mind.

In the back of _those girls' minds_.

And I think I'm losing my own.

I'm on my knees at the water's edge, and my face is wet. Someone is beside me. A stranger with a pony tail poking out from a baseball cap. I see her mouth move, I hear her voice. The words don't make sense.

Nothing makes sense.

She's trying to get me to stand, so I struggle to my feet. I see a pair of sandals in the water, bobbing along in their separate ways until the tide comes back in to send them bumping against each other. And then I realize that they're mine.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and the wind snatches the words away.

"…all right?"

Am I all right?

I pick up my water-logged shoes and smile at her while wiping at my face.

I'm fine.

_I'm fine._

I'll make sense of it all, somehow.

Some way.

**. . .**

Meanwhile, the Mother of the Three Fates, irrevocably and conclusively present in the incarnation of atmosphere surrounding this mortal's misbegotten existence, decides that it is seven times too many for the Girl of the Lost and the Muse of forsaken chances.

It is time they had their own.

Even the gods daren't fight against Ananke.

And so she stays nearby, as she has her own magic to impart; it will have its own consequences, as well – which only a Mother's arms can soothe.

**. . .**

"Maybe you should go home," Alice says.

It's Tuesday, and we're watching a movie, only I haven't been paying attention and her words snap me out of my trance. I raise my head off of the couch pillow I'm lying on and give her a look.

"This_ is_ my home." My words are strong, and laced with hurt that she would suggest such a thing.

Her face softens. "I know, sweetie. But I meant maybe you should go visit your dad. Get a change of scenery. Recharge in your hometown."

I think of my dad's arms, his Old Spice smell, and the rumble of his laugh. How he loves fishing, how he still tries to get me hooked on it, too. And I imagine being back in Forks, in its logging and outdoorsy-centered town, the trees, the green, and quiet everywhere.

There are less people there.

"Maybe," I say, and settle my head back down on the pillow. I'm lying length-wise across our couch, and Alice is sitting in her leopard-print chair. I don't feel like moving. I don't feel like doing much of anything, really.

"I've never seen you this way," she says a while later. "It's not like you to fall so hard, so quickly, for someone you barely know."

I guess neither of us is watching the movie.

"I… couldn't help it," I say. The words come out woodenly, as if I don't care, as if I'm numb. "And I'm sorry I can't tell you about it, Alice. I'm really not… not ready to talk about it. I need to get it all straight in my own head first."

If that's even possible.

So far, I'm having trouble deciding what's real, trying to understand when it all happened, and _why _I'm having these memories. Because I've had trouble sleeping, I can't even rule out hallucinations.

All I know for sure is that everything seems to center around E. Around these hazy tableaux of the two of us, of the things we've done and said that I just don't remember doing. Why am I seeing them? Did they really happen? Was that me in a past life? Because I know that these insistent images are… almost… possibly mementos of things that happened in the past…

I can't decide if these images are a good thing, or if I'm being punished.

My heartbeats echo his name. My lips crave his liar's mouth against mine again; this time with just a lover's passion, the way my pulse tells me I have in the past. I miss feeling the warm force of his stare, the way it burns me so good inside. And when he says my name in that honeyed lilt of his? I almost shudder just thinking of it.

How is it possible, if all the time he was lying, that his arms could make me feel so safe and real, and like he could love me?

I wish I'd never met him.

It's a thought that is shared by the girls in my memories.

"You're not letting me earn my badge of sisterhood," Alice tells me. "How can I help you to make sense of this if you won't tell me anything?"

I close my eyes and see a girl who looks like me, as she leans over the small pond near her house. Her broken-looking stare is like an open wound.

Am I ever going to be able _not _to see those faces again?

"I've been having these… thoughts," I say. "They're just… crazy."

I don't look at her as I say this; I can't.

"Crazy thoughts?" she prods me.

_Utterly insane._

"Do you, um…" I say and swallow, because this is hard. How on earth do I ask her this? "I don't even know if this would make sense…"

_Oh just ask. _

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" I ask.

There's a long pause after my question.

But at least she doesn't laugh.

"Well, my aunt insists she was a diva in a past life," Alice answers slowly. "Which is absurd, because she can't carry a tune at all."

I stare unseeingly at the colors and shapes on the TV, deciding that Alice is going to think I'm being ridiculous. I probably shouldn't say anything. After all, I don't know for sure.

I hear her shifting in the seat as she turns to face me.

"Why?"

I shake my head against the pillow. It's rough against my face; I'm not numb after all.

"I've just been having some weird dreams," I say.

_And thoughts. And memories._

"You want to tell me about them?"

_They scare me._

"They just don't make sense, is all," I say dismissively, hoping she'll drop it.

But she doesn't.

"How so?"

She turns the sound down, and I can suddenly hear each beat of my heart. It's pounding in my ears.

"I keep seeing my face in different times," I whisper. "In places where I've never been. I have these memories that I shouldn't have."

My nose tickles as a teardrop slides down the side.

Great. I'm crying again.

"You do?"

I sniff. "It won't turn off."

_And E is there every time._

I hear her slide off the chair, and then she's kneeling in front of me, grasping my hand, looking at me with tender sympathy that just makes me cry harder.

"Don't make me talk about it," I sob.

_It hurts too much._

She sits beside me on the couch, and pulls me up and into her arms. And then she holds me.

Just holds me.

**. . .**

Dad is waiting for me at SeaTac, wearing a small, goofy smile under his mustache. Seeing him sends a twinge of unexpected pain and need through my body, and I'm running the last few feet to reach him.

"Daddy," I choke, and have to swallow back my tears. He'll freak out if I start crying.

"Whoa," he says, but his arms tighten, and he lets me hug him until I'm ready to let go.

"You okay?" He asks, after I finally let him go.

I smile brightly. "Sometimes I just need my dad," I say.

He slings an arm around my shoulders. "That's what I'm here for."

I'm so glad he's still here with me, that I haven't lost him, too. He's in great shape, has color in his cheeks, and his gaze is soft, patient. Last minute visit or not, he's as glad to see me as I am him.

"I didn't check any bags," I tell him. "I'm only staying for a few days."

Just long enough to let reality become the bigger picture in my mind. Long enough to remember the things that really matter: my dad, my painting, my sanity.

It's blissfully quiet in the car, and I drift in the seat until we reach the Bogachiel River. Even though my eyes are closed, I smell the river and the pine trees. Their scents flood my senses like old friends.

After all, home is where the heart is.

Not trapped in a liar's hands.

**. . .**

My bedroom is exactly how I left it at Christmas: tubes of wrapping paper stashed under the bed, my red cashmere sweater hung across the office chair, a half-eaten candy cane forgotten on the bedside table.

I write my name in the dust on the desk in front of the window, then set my duffle bag down on the bed. The cover is the same one I used all throughout high school: the soft, worn paisley that Dad let the saleslady pick out for his sixteen-year-old daughter.

The violet hue of the designs fill me with unease – as anything that shade of color does nowadays – and I abruptly flip the cover back to reveal the solid purple underside. I sit and finger the worn fabric nubs, wondering if Dad would be hurt if I hauled the comforter out to the trash.

_This is stupid._

_This is my place. My things._

_There's nothing wrong here, except everything needs a good cleaning._

And I lay back against the pillows with a huff, raising a cloud of dust that makes me sneeze.

Later, after doing a load of laundry and making dad's favorite dinner of shepherd's pie, we sit in the living room watching a sports show.

"Ah, c'mon!" Dad yells at the screen. Instead of the beer can I'm used to seeing, he now has a squish ball in his hand that I notice he squeezes when he's yelling at the TV.

A few moments later, his gaze swings to me.

"So are you gonna tell me why you're really here?"

His eyes are back on the TV, but I know he's listening; that he's aware of me. This is just his way of being non-threatening and low-key.

But I wish I had a squish ball of my own.

"Just needed some time away from Los Angeles," I shrug.

He eyes me, then grunts. Squeezes the ball.

"Someone I need to hunt down?"

Before I can take another breath, his eyes dart back to the sports show, releasing me, allowing me my privacy to feel the quick, white-hot sting of pain that his question raises.

"And don't lie," he tells me, driving the pain unexpectedly deeper. "Just talk to me."

I take a jagged breath and shift in my seat. I hadn't intended to tell Dad anything, but his plea to me not to lie hits hard, hits too close.

And so I tell him.

Sort of.

"You know that perpetual motion toy, the Newton's Cradle?" I begin, and my voice is embarrassingly thin. "The desk toy with the five silver balls that each hang by a string, and how when you lift the ball on one end and let it go, it makes the other outside ball swing without moving the ones in between?"

His eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't take his gaze off the TV.

_I love you, Dad._

"Damned thing, that," he grumbles.

I swallow. Dig my heels into the thick fabric of the couch.

"Um, lately, I've been feeling like the ball in the middle, getting pounded on both sides. The stagnant one that allows the others to go and do and be. But… I can't seem to move. And the hits keeps coming."

He leans his elbows against his knees, then playfully transfers the squish ball from hand to hand. My eyes follow the movements as if hypnotized.

"Well, if memory serves, you just need someone to do the three ball swing," he says.

"The what?"

He aims a quick smile my way. "You need someone to add you in the next swing. So you can go both ways."

I smile weakly back. As far as advice goes, I don't think I can really use it. But then I watch his own smile turn slowly into a scowl.

"Uh, we're not talking about sex, are we?"

And then I'm laughing.

Because that's when I know this will be okay.

**. . .**

For dinner the next day, Dad and I drive to La Push to see Jake and Billy.

"I've just been promoted to forest crew supervisor for the Department of Natural Resources," Jake says as soon as he opens the door. Brags, really.

I laugh. "Well, hello to you, too. What's that?"

"I basically make sure everyone's doing what they're supposed to, when they supposed to," he says.

I snort and roll my eyes, then he grabs me up in a quick, hard hug that leaves me breathless.

"Jesus, Jake, under your hands is a living girl," I complain.

"Sorry, Bells. Don't know my own strength, I guess."

I shove him off, then push the palms of my hands down the back pockets of my jeans and study him unobtrusively. He's always been big, but he seems at least two sizes bigger now than when I saw him last.

"You've been working out?"

He flexes a bicep playfully for me. "I'm always working out now," he says. "Not just to egg our dads on, but because there are some tough guys out there working forestry. I gotta look the part, or they'll never respect me."

"Do the same dirty work they do, only better, and they'll respect you," Dad tells him, as we move past the door.

Jake raises his hands to his chest. "Oh, I do, Charlie. After all, I've won the log running contest three years straight now."

"And has the crooked nose to prove it," Billy interjects from behind him.

"Atta boy, kid," Dad laughs.

Jake fingers his nose self-consciously, then leads us to the dining room table. There are plates of fish taco makings and Spanish rice waiting for us. His specialty, he says.

Growing up, spaghetti used to be his specialty. He'd harvest his own tomatoes, then cook them for hours with secret ingredients he shared with no one, into the best tasting sauce I've ever had.

He makes a batch on my birthday, and sends it by UPS. It's one of the best gifts anybody could ever give me.

We've come a long way in twenty-three years.

Growing up as close as siblings, then growing closer… until it became just wrong for me. I loved him, and always would, but ultimately, he was always going to be more like a brother to me.

Although breaking up with him hurt more people than just Jake at the time, it was one of the things I'd done right for a change. His smile today tells me that in more ways than one.

"Hey, Billy," I say, as he wheels behind us into the room.

His neuropathy prohibits walking without pain, so he's been in a wheelchair for almost a year now. Sometimes it hurts to see a proud man reduced to such a state, but he's making it work. His eyes are alive, and as fierce as ever.

"Bella. I was surprised to hear you were here, but it's good to see you."

"Yeah, it was kind of a last minute thing," I say. "How's it going, Billy?"

"Oh, can't complain. Got another order in from Seattle. This store wants a pair," he says with a wink.

"That's great," I say. Ever since he's been retired, he's been carving life-sized wolves out of wood full time.

"He should do some fish. Salmon. Hey, maybe some steelhead," Dad says.

I tune them out as we settle in at the table, and pretty soon we're passing dishes around. I'm glad the sound of Dad and Billy talking covers the embarrassing rumble in my stomach.

I'm hungry.

I'm actually hungry.

This is a very good thing.

"So how's Leah?" I ask Jake. My mouth is full, but these guys don't care, and neither do I.

Jake and Billy trade a look, and I stop chewing.

_What?_

"We, uh, broke up," Jake says. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, then picks up his glass of ice water and damn near chugs the whole thing.

"He just met somebody new," Billy says to me lowly. "Leah's taking it pretty hard."

"Yeah," Jake says, and sets glass back down on the table with a smack. "It sucks, because I didn't want to hurt Leah, but there it is."

His eyes are darker than dark as they meet mine, and in them is an apology. For what, I have no idea.

"I'm… what?" I say. Jake is supposed to be one of my best friends. How is it that I know nothing of Jake breaking up with her?

He places the flat of his hands against the table top. "Meeting Vanessa made me realize what love can be. And I finally understood why you broke up with me. Forgave you completely, too."

Then he picks up his half-eaten fish taco. "So that's it," he says around a mouthful, as if he hasn't just totally rocked my world with that news.

"That's great," I say. "That's… awesome."

"She's a good girl," Billy says around his own mouthful of food. "Knows how to pitch a tent and fillet a fish."

"A real looker, too," Dad says, and shrugs at me.

"We just fit," Jake says of this girl I've never met. "I knew it as soon as I held her hand. There was like this – _spark _– and it was really weird, but she felt it, too."

He raises his hand as if in disbelief, as if the thought of a girl's touch is ridiculous and to be disregarded; but it's also clear that he believes in the magic of it anyway.

I'm riveted by the lines and curves on Jake's palm, as they intersect and stretch across the width of it. Under the table, my hand flexes in reaction; it's as if I can feel the bumps and curves, the warmth, the impossible pleasing tickle of a finger being drawn down the tender skin inside of my own.

And my fingers… the sensitive skin between my fingers… tingle. Burn, almost.

My mind plays a dance with E: a dance where only our hands touch, even though I long to be physically close in other ways.

His gaze is heavy, sensual, and sends a lick of fire up my back.

_I am the Muse of Dance. _

_You forget the dreams I give you._

_You doubt me._

**. . .**

I remember everything.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter summary:** We belong together. I feel it with every fiber of my being.

**Acknowledgments: **Everybody knows the drill by now, right? I may be the lead singer of this story, but BelleBiter is behind the scenes fine tuning the melody.

**A/N: **Thank you times 23 to Sunflower Frannie Walsh for featuring DtE in her Facebook group called _Pay it Forward_.

* * *

High up in the heavens, behind an accumulation of billowing white clouds, there is a majestic palace of sparkling silver and marble. A lush carpet of thick, emerald grass enfolds its side parameters, while a still, lapis-blue sea gently abuts the pristine front – just daring to barely touch the bottom-most steps that lead up to the dais where the Ruler of All the Gods sits upon his throne.

Long, well-formed fingers are tapping against the shimmering quartz armrest at his side.

His expression is beautifully fearsome with a proud, furrowed brow, thick eyebrows slanted low over a piercing, steely gaze, and a well-defined jaw clenched tight. It is the sight of a normally calm-looking expression turned dangerous, which would cause even the bravest of men's hearts to jump in their chests.

Because Zeus is furious.

No one has ever recovered eradicated memories.

He does not understand how this mere mortal has persevered and done so, when she has never managed it even once before. Not even Terpsichore has recalled his memories.

And he is more than a little concerned as he sees his youngest muse flee his chosen hovel on Earth for _her_ – back to the one whom he has found and fallen in love with, over and over.

It's really quite puzzling, how and why they keep meeting.

This cannot end well.

**. . .**

Like I did while growing up in this house, I lie in my teenaged bed and stare up at the patterns the trees and beams of moonlight create on the ceiling. Only this time, I think I catch glimpses of the shadow I used to cast as a girl, lost in the little spaces between the flickering leaves and a forked tree branch. In the sudden gust of wind that shakes my window and the tree limbs alike, I see her shape jump and tremble.

It's late. Or early, depending on your mindset, I guess.

The rest of dinner at Billy and Jake's had been difficult after my shocking revelation of who E really is – swallowing what had turned to cardboard in my mouth, trying to act normal, remembering to smile at the right times. My thoughts were overwhelming, and all I really wanted to do was to escape.

And now my muddled mind is restlessly questioning everything that I've unexpectedly remembered.

Why had I forgotten in the first place? It's not every day that someone tells you he is a Muse. That's not something I would ever forget. And considering that E has these powers, he's probably the one behind my lost memories.

_But why?_

Which brings me to the next thing: E is a Muse; the immortal kind who has lived for centuries. He's probably smelled the ink used to sign the Declaration of Independence, made mortar with mud and straw and stones beside Gilgamesh, danced to _Hey nonny _with the other deceivers in Midsummer's, run down a field holding the fabric of an airplane wing steady just before one or the other of the Wright brothers finally lifted off, argued the nature of love's purpose with Socrates, and even knows exactly what the surface of the moon looks like.

All those years. And now he's here with me. Again.

But he _knew_ – he knew all along that I had forgotten what he'd revealed about himself. That I'd forgotten how close we had grown. The day he found me in the parking lot at the beach? That's when _I_ knew I hadn't imagined the heartbroken look in his eyes.

We have met, loved and lost each other time and time again because of rules that I just don't understand. In all this time, especially when I was a child enamored by fairy tales like Cinderella and The Little Mermaid, I always thought love conquered all – that if you found a special someone to love and they loved you back, that _that_ was the missing puzzle piece which solved your life's mystery.

I might have grown cynical about that idea as I matured, but I couldn't have anticipated anyone like E; he's not just _anyone_. Isn't _he_ my life's mystery? After all, we keep finding each other. Surely, there has to be a reason. Maybe it's because we didn't make it the first time, or the second time, or the next time after that?

And… and he took my memories away, even though I… even though we…

What if we don't make it this time, either?

I can't possibly sleep. And there's only one certain someone who could ever help me understand.

"E?" I say into the silence.

My eyes search the dark corners of the room, then dart to the window. If he'd disappeared in the blink of an eye, surely he could appear in one?

I sit up in my bed, dragging the pillow into my arms to hold.

"If you truly are my Muse, you'll come to me," I whisper fervently. "Please."

And I wait with my heart in my throat… hoping, praying, and wishing.

When nothing happens, I bury my face in the pillow I'm holding and sob. I feel like I've lost my mind, just when I want to believe I've had a break-through… that E will come back to me now that I know who he really is, now that I know everything… but when he doesn't come… and he _still _doesn't come… I feel further away from the answers than ever before.

None of this makes sense any more.

I'm not sure if it ever did.

It must have just been my imagination. Or some kind of humiliating, wishful thinking on my part, wanting to turn an impossible situation into something real because—

There's pressure against the back of my head; a sudden warmth.

Gasping, I jerk my head up, and there he is.

Kneeling in front of me, one hand still raised in the air after he lets it slide from my head.

"You're here," I say dumbly on an exhale.

"Always," he answers softly.

I can't breathe at first.

Maybe I'm dreaming?

_Oh, I hope not, I hope not…_

I've forgotten the impossible beauty of his face, what it makes me feel, how it stuns me. My eyes dart from his gentle gaze to the wide, well-shaped curve of his mouth, to the cleft in his chin. That soft, intense, adoring almost, stare of his makes that my heart turn over in my chest.

But if he adores me, why did he wait so long to appear when I was calling for him?

"Why didn't you come when I first called you?"

"I wasn't sure if you really meant to summon me."

I shake my head, and scoot a little closer to him because the distance between us hurts. "I meant to call you. _I meant to_."

He exhales visibly, then hesitantly moves to cup my cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears he finds there. My whole body responds to the contact; everything inside me just collapses, and then I throw myself into his arms. He's warm, solid, _real. _And he's holding me as tightly as I am him.

"I missed you," I say, and it's an echo from the depths of my soul.

His lips are pressed against my forehead, and his breath is as unsteady as mine. One of his hands returns to the back of my head, and he cradles me against his chest as if I'm precious. Then he draws his fingers soothingly through my hair, again and again.

"I missed you, too," he whispers against my ear. "I thought I'd lost you."

But he'd never lost me; I'd always lost _him_ to his jealous god.

And I try to tell him that, but then his mouth is against mine, slow and tentative at first, then quickly escalating to deep, hungry and desperate. He grasps the back of my neck almost too hard, and he's thorough – he kisses me like no one else has before, as if he's trying to memorize the way we touch. All the anguish is there in his kiss, all the longing and want in mine.

"If I have a soul at all," he breathes, "It is because of you."

I can barely think with the silk of his lips dragging against mine. Or even remember my own name as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. I am filled with awe and disbelief that this is happening. I've feared and wanted this for so long that it almost seems like another dream now.

But the thought of a dream brings a different kind of fear and unease.

He doesn't know that I know of our past lives.

He doesn't know that I have been wondering how he could just leave me, leave me broken and longing for him.

He doesn't know that I'm scared he'll just do the same thing again.

"E," I say, and wrench my mouth away. "I can't. I can't, not if you're not… not honest with me."

He presses his lips against my temple, against my cheek. "You know everything about me," he says raggedly, his thumb dragging against my lower lip.

I want him so badly. This feels so right, so true, and every nerve cell in my body is clamoring to be bare against him. For him to claim my body the way I know he has before. The way I long for him to do so now.

But I _don't_ know everything about him. I don't how he could leave me once, let alone how many other times. I don't even know why he took my memories away to begin with.

And is he going to take them away again?

"Please," I say, and a strangled sound escapes from the back of my throat. "We can't. Not yet."

But my fingers are twisting, twisting in his shirt, wanting to yank him against me and never let go.

He exhales against my temple and goes still, his taut body slowly relaxing. When he moves back, his eyes are open, gentle, and reverent as they gaze into mine. That look goes a long way towards calming my suddenly panicky heart.

Standing, he pulls me up with him, and I'm reminded of how tall he is, and that I'm barefoot and in my pajamas. He shoots a lingering look down at my exposed legs, then picks me up in his arms and sits on the side of the bed, situating me sideways on his lap.

I burrow my head into the hollow space beneath his jaw as his head leans to rest against mine. His arms tighten around me, his fingers curving around my shoulder and hip, pulling me close. My free hand slowly climbs his chest, my palm an open caress against his pectoral muscle, then his wide shoulder, sliding over to his neck. My fingers play with the silky tendrils of hair at his nape, and he sighs into me.

We sit like this for long minutes, just basking in each other's presence, inhaling each other's scent. It's like coming home, only it's unlike a place I've ever been.

At least in _this _lifetime, since I know I've been here – with him – like this before. Somewhere, some time.

We belong together. I feel it with every fiber of my being. The way he holds me – so close, so lingering, with the deep, slow breaths he's taking – tells me that he might feel the same.

His hand raises to the one I have curled around his neck, fingers lacing with mine. He brings my palm to his face, to his cheek, then to his lips, where he presses a kiss there.

"I love you," he says.

I gasp and raise my head, because it's too soon now, isn't it? Yet it isn't for yesterday, or maybe even today. _Now_. I somehow sense the timeless truth in his words – it's in the way he looks at me, like I'm all that matters, and how he touches me, as if I'm something precious.

_I love you, too._

It's on the tip of my tongue. And it may be too soon, but the soothing warmth, the truth of it, is flooding my body anyway.

Which makes it all the more pressing for me to know why he would ever try to destroy what we have.

"Then why… why did you take away my memories?"

His thick, dark eyebrows furrow. "How is it that you remember?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. I just do."

My eyes are tearing up, so I have to look away. To take a breath before I can ask the question that I need to. I want to be furious with him, but there's no room for it with this aching sorrow.

"Why, E? Why would you do such a thing?"

Before my eyes, his seem to darken with age. "To protect you. I should never have revealed myself to you in the first place."

He has such a look of devastation on his face that I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I can talk again. "But why? Why wouldn't you be able to share that with me?"

"It is not allowed," he says.

Those horrible words ring through my ears twice: as he said it in the past, and as he says it now.

"No," I say on a sob, and my head is slowly shaking back and forth. My eyes are stinging. "No. Not again."

"Bella," he says.

"You can't leave me again," I choke on the words. "I won't survive it this time, I know it."

His words are smooth, but decidedly confused. "This time?"

I try to push out of his arms, and it's a struggle because he doesn't want to let me go. But when he sees I'm determined, he lets me slide free, and now I'm the one who's on my knees in front of him.

"Please don't leave me this time, E. Fight him. Fight your father. Oh, God, this _cannot _be our fate again."

His warm fingers encircle my wrists. "What do you mean?"

_What do I mean? Doesn't he… doesn't he remember?_

"You… you…"

"Tell me," he says fervently, and his eyes flash violet as he tries to work his magic on me.

But I already want to give him whatever he wants.

My chin is suddenly quivering with the sobs I'm trying to hold back at the realization that he doesn't remember anything. My heart feels like it's breaking all over again.

"My dad," I gasp, afraid he's going to hear us.

"He won't wake," E says. "I've put him into a deep sleep."

"You what?"

His eyes flash again. "It is harmless, Bella. He'll wake better rested than he has in a long time, I promise." He exhales almost harshly, and his grip around my wrists tightens. "Now, please. Tell me what you meant?"

"I don't know how to say this," I begin shakily. "And I don't how or why, but I know I've met you before. Not in this life. And not just once. My body, my heart, my soul… _knows you_."

Wide, horrified eyes meet mine. He lets go of my wrists to grab my upper arms.

"I have memories of you and me – the _two_ of us – doing things that we've never done in this life," I whisper. And I tell him about my memories. I tell him all of it.

His eyes squeeze closed as he makes a sound of distress in his throat, and then he says a string of words in a language I don't know, his voice low and shaking with pain. Seeing him hurt steals the last of my resolve to be brave; I can deal with my own, but feeling his pain is like a knife has just been driven into my heart.

And then we're in each other's arms again, holding on tight to the dear time we have left.

**. . .**

He stays with me all night, his arms around me, and his body warm against mine. I rest my head on his chest and marvel at his heartbeat; he is here with me. My Muse is _real_.

In between kisses and slow caresses, he shares everything: his life, his siblings, and his father, whom he refers to as Zeus. Which shatters everything I've ever believed again, because I always thought the legends about the gods were just _that_. And now I'm discovering how a certain _two_ of them have played havoc with my life.

With my _lives._

E also tells me that his own powers are restricted mostly to Earth, because he is only considered a minor god in the scheme of things; and that up until a month ago, he was relatively content with his place in the universe.

But then he confesses that I changed all of that. I changed him, just as he has changed me.

Again, I guess.

He blames his memory loss of our past lives on something he calls the River of Lost Dreams.

"It is the only possible explanation for why I never came back to you," he says. "If Zeus had not commanded me to drink from the Lethe, nothing in the heavens or on earth would have kept me from you, Bella."

Turning on his side, he takes my face firmly in his hand. His gaze is pure violet, and sears me inside from toe to eyebrow.

"I am sorry for all the times I have hurt you. So very sorry. You are, and have always been, my dream. My love."

And he presses the gentlest of kisses against my lips. A warm burst of effervescence fills my chest, and I pull back in surprise.

"Did you do that?"

"That is love's true kiss," he tells me, in a tone of voice that reverberates throughout my ears and mind and senses, making my heart squeeze at the power I'm hearing. And feeling. And remembering.

My hand comes up to grab his wrist. "Is he…" And I swallow. "Is he going to make you forget about me again?"

E leans forward until our faces are pressed together.

"He will try," he murmurs against my lips. "But I will not let him win, not this time."

My breath is shaky at the thought of losing him again. "But what if you've said this to me before?"

Now _his_ breath is shaky.

He can't answer me.

He doesn't know.

So he kisses me instead, and my chest and heart are alive with that feeling he's giving me, leaving room for nothing else. It sends a spark of warmth shooting through my entire body, awakening every nerve ending along the way, making me gasp and moan with its intensity.

"You are mine," he grits, pushing me onto my back, pushing his chest against mine. "Then and now. Especially now."

_Forever now,_ his voice says in my mind.

I gape up at him. Did he just—

_Yes, Bella. Forever._

His fingers come to rest on my chin, lifting it for his kiss. A maelstrom of feeling, desire and need rises like a stormfire inside, terrifying me with its power.

"I am here," he murmurs at the same time that I hear the words in my mind.

He's everywhere.

Fingers tracing my collarbone, skimming along the sensitive skin there… and then down to the inside of my arm, thumbs dragging along the outer side of my breasts. I arch my back, aching for his touch directly. He moves his hands under the hem of the t-shirt I'm wearing, fingers sweeping along my lower belly, teasingly drawing their tips under the band of my panties. Then lower, lower.

_You ARE mine._

"You're _mine,_" I growl back.

_I'm not giving you back this time,_ I think.

And his words: _I am not leaving you this time._

Our thoughts, formed and unformed, mingle like our limbs. I hear his siren's call in my mind and in my ears. I feel it in my bones. We are one. We are meant to be.

Once my shirt is tugged up and off, his eyes drop, lashes fanning against his impossible cheekbones, which are flushed with desire. I let him look, craving his stare, needing it.

The word _beautiful _reverberates throughout my mind and my body.

And then it's my turn. My turn to urge his shirt off. I help him unbutton it, my fingers clumsy yet determined. As each inch of skin is revealed, I grow more and more feverish.

He shrugs the shirt off almost violently, and then his chest is against mine, sliding and raising, moving down as I'm arching. I'm sobbing, grasping and greedy as my hands smooth along his skin, and I'm totally out of control. Not like myself at all.

_I've needed this. Oh, how I've needed this._

I should be embarrassed; I've never acted this way before. Never felt this strongly before. Never felt _anything _like this before.

_Or have I? What is this? All of me, past and present, grasping on to what we've so missed?_

It's burning me up inside, setting fire to the last remnants of my common sense. To everything.

It's freeing me, in a sense.

And I could die.

I would die happy.

_You won't die. I will not allow it._

He straddles my legs, grabs my hips. Pulls me up. My pelvis brushes against his erection. Once, twice.

"I want you," he groans.

"Take me," I breathe.

_Why can't you just take me?_

His breath comes out on a sob, then he falls over me, holding his weight up off of me by his forearms and his knees.

"Once we have come together? That is when he will command me back."

And then I'm filled with anguish.

_We can't make love?_

"Oh, but we _are_ making love," he gasps.

I'm surging against him, wanting to press my ache against his. To grind, to chase that elusive feeling until I capture it, until I break with him.

He lets me shift a leg between his, but won't let me open up for him entirely.

"I'm not ready yet," he says in his double-timbered god-like voice, but his body's motions betray him. His hands are cupped around my bottom, holding me tight to him as we arch against each other.

_Not ready for me?_

"Once I spill inside you," he says jerkily against my neck, "it marks the end."

His tongue pushes into my mouth again, plunging in hard, deep, as he would if we were going to make love. I'm splayed open, vulnerable, wanting and needing to be filled. He is hard against my leg, maybe bruising me, but it can't be any harder than I'm pressing myself against his own thigh.

"Please," I breathe, and I don't even recognize my voice.

He moves his hand from its harsh clasp at my bottom to the front of my underwear. But instead of delving underneath like I expect him to, his fingers glide along the fabric, over my pelvic bone, slowly moving down and over to the skin there. My breath shudders and my body jerks.

The leg not trapped by his, I move out away from my body further… until his hip bone sinks into me, and is lodged firmly just where I want it.

"Futuo," he grits, pressing himself against the inside of my leg, and the iron sensation of it – how hard he is, the evidence of how much he wants me – just makes me more wild.

He wants me. He wants me.

"Of course I want you," he growls, and the fingers he had splayed teasingly at the juncture of my inner thigh and pelvis suddenly sweep inside to caress where I am hot, throbbing and wet for him.

He cries out with me, our bodies sliding clumsily together, bumping and surging and arching away, only to crash again. He falls further into me, his cock and his fingers only inches apart now.

"Oh, yes," he says with a hitch in his breath, as he presses a finger, then two, inside of me.

His touch makes me shiver from the inside out. I crave his fullness, the completeness I know he can give me, but in the far reaches of my mind, I understand why he won't join with me. It hurts, but I understand.

The wet sound of his fingers sliding against me… my ragged breathing, _his_ ragged breathing… is all I hear.

"Come for me," he commands.

At the sound of his rough, honey voice, my body snaps against his once, twice, and I'm clenching around his fingers. Waves of sensation begin deep and low, then widen from there, growing stronger, getting longer, until I'm screaming with the shattering power of it, until I don't know where I begin or he ends.

He's kissing along my jawline when I become aware of my surroundings again. The birds are beginning to sing, and the darkness in my room has lightened to gray.

I glance from the window and back to his face several times. It was just after midnight when I turned out the light. And now it's – I turn to press the button on my phone – 7:32 a.m.

"How?" I ask him.

His face is drawn, almost haggard, but he is still unbelievably, ethereally beautiful.

He is, after all, a god.

"I made it last all night," he says with a wicked smile.

"But… but…" I say.

_But you are still rock hard against my thigh._

His eyes close. He nods his head in a pained way, and slides sinuously off me to my side.

"I need to have a plan in place first," he tells me.

My head sinks against his chest. I feel his nose part the hair at my temple, feel his lips soothe the pounding pulse there.

"A plan to make love to me?" I ask.

_Because if you come inside of me, Zeus will call it quits?_

"I will not lose you now, not right after I've just found you again," he says.

"But—"

"It will go away," he says of his erection. "Sleep."

I shake my head at him.

_No. No, I will not go to slee—_

**. . .**

He pulls her closer to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly, so tightly, around her.

Wills the physical ache away.

Tries to reconcile the new, commanding voice inside his head, the one that insists it is time for Bella to take her place beside him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter summary:** We will never lose each other again… we will never forget to remember.

**Acknowledgements: ** Half of this chapter's credit must go to BelleBiter, because she spent almost as much time as I did on it. Which means this story, this chapter, wouldn't sing nearly so well without her tireless efforts. Thank you so much, B.

**A/N: **Thank you times 23 to MinaRivera for the fabulous story banner _and _the animated gif. Also to Rachel Winterhorses, for her research, pre-reading and baseball skillz.

* * *

Something is wrong.

There is a musical, rushing-water sound that makes me think of the fountain at the building where I work - an unbroken gurgling, a soothing kind of white noise that must have lulled me right into oblivion.

Shocked, fearing that I've fallen asleep while on my lunch break, I jerk myself up with a gasp… and see that I'm lying on verdant, emerald green grass. It's so lush and thick that I cannot feel the ground, and when I run the top of my hand across the blades, it's the softest sensation of velvet, cool and fragrant, like… _lavender? _The sweet scent is everywhere - in the grass, carried on the gentle breeze that caresses my face, completely surrounding me - and I close my eyes as I inhale deeply.

For long moments, I lose myself in this pleasure of sound, sight and scent - an unexpected, but strangely welcome balm for my soul. Then, like a second thought that doesn't really concern me, I wonder where I am.

As I shift over onto my hip and look around, I don't know what I'm more surprised about: that I'm barefoot, that I'm _here_—wherever _here _is—or that there is now a Niagara-sized waterfall suddenly, spectacularly in my line of sight, just beyond the tips of my bare toes. I don't know how I missed it before, but as its expanse fills my vision and the whooshing becomes a gentle pressure I feel pushing against the soles of my feet, and a roar I feel in my bones... my heart stops… and then races until I'm panting in awed disbelief.

On the sloping hill at my side, pink anthuriums, gold begonias and pale bluebells dance on the wind, bringing their own scents to mix with the lavender in the air. Velvet spokes of purple fountain grass, deep in color at the roots and growing lighter the taller they grow, compete for my attention, and I hardly know where to look.

It's almost as if this place exists simply to beguile each of my senses one-by-one, leaving nothing unexplored or untouched—an encounter that's designed to capture my every attention, one that's bound to forever change me. Surely, dreams must be born here... and prayers answered... the possibilities fathomless.

What _is _this place?

On shaky arms, I push myself up and walk across the grass towards the waterfall as—_whoa, it's a cliff th__at came from nowhere_—and, heart slamming, I stumble backwards hastily.

Once I catch my breath, I cautiously approach the edge again, wary of such sudden danger lurking in the beauty here. Down, down, down the water falls, and I almost shrink back when I see how far above I am from the lake below. It's so far down that I feel as if I am standing on the top of the world… just a lone girl at the precipice of something profoundly magnificent.

But as majestic as the turbulent falls are above, below is a mysteriously still lake - a juxtaposition of unnatural nature - which stretches out farther than I can see. I openly gape at the oddly perfect, symmetrical placement of rust-and-lichen-covered rocks in the lake that the water seems to embrace, the way the light shimmers and teases its way through the falling cascade. Little twinkles of color flash inside the still water and along its border, and I nearly fall off the edge of the cliff when I see why.

White, rose and yellow diamonds of different cuts and shapes are embedded in the soil that surrounds the unusually serene lake. I even see them in the bank of the cliff I'm standing on - almost as if at some point, a frustrated pirate had just poured his treasure trove down the side of the embankment… and then called it a day.

When the breeze, water and sun unite to hit the stones just right, an iridescent mist rises in the air. In the deepest part of the lake, what look like emeralds and sapphires sparkle and dim, giving the water an ever fluctuating, ethereal quality.

_This, _I see as I turn slowly in place, this _place _is like someone commissioned Monet to create a three-dimensional reality from one of his garden paintings.

Am I dreaming?

_I have to be dreaming._

This isn't real...

_It's so quiet here. Too quiet…_

During my senior year of college, I took a trip to Niagara Falls, and I remember that its majesty was indescribable, and how its presence hit me square in the stomach, surrounding me from all sides. I've heard the deafening roar of a waterfall that size, actually felt the crash of the water resonate deep inside my body; I've smelled the unique, crisp scent of the rising spray at the bottom from hundreds of feet away. But this unlikely, gem-surrounded lake seems to be absorbing the crash of water. Embracing it. _C__ontaining _it.

_This should be impossible._

But it's not. Obviously, it's not.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back under the sun's warmth. This place smells like Grandma Swan's flower garden after a good rain, and feels like the expectant hush between four and five a.m. - just before the world awakens and gets to business.

Above me, the sky is a deep, cobalt blue. Several lightning bolts continuously spear the heavens, dropping six-point stars of red, gold and violet to nest in leafy bushes. Some of them burst into sparks of fire upon contact with one of the gigantic, intricately-carved statues that I suddenly notice…

to…

my…

_right_.

I'm so startled by their sudden appearance that my foot twists and skids backwards in the grass - and I fall right on my behind.

_They weren't here a moment ago. _

I would have noticed a milk-white, opaline quartz statue that stood over twenty-feet-tall, let alone two, four, six… _twelve _of them—and _wheredidtheycomefrom?!_

Sitting there with my mouth gaping, I watch them glow with a soft light from within, rivaling the gem-filled water for beauty. And then… then, right before my eyes… the flat, emerald expanse of grass behind them begins crawling upwards and shaping itself into a hill.

I'm on my knees when it stops—a subject of genuflection before an unimaginable phenomenon—when a temple with elegant Corinthian columns starts to rise and build itself from the ground up. It appears first like a spirit shadow, gaining density the higher it goes, and the ever-darkening pure white against the emerald grass and cobalt blue sky is vivid, striking.

If I tilt my head just-so, I can see the statues in front of me in perfect placement between each of the columns. As if the statues and the structure are one and the same…

And that _can't _be just by chance.

I hear whispers on the wind, faint melodious voices speaking in unusual cadences and syllables, words that make no sense to me, yet are oddly familiar and beautiful nonetheless. They are trying to tell me something, and I cock my head to listen…

And that's when it all bursts into an unmistakable realization for me.

The statues are of the twelve Olympians of the Pantheon, although I'm not sure how I know this. It should be strange that I do—is it because I heard the voices? But somehow, it just feels _right_.

I push myself up to my feet and reverently approach the first statue, which is of a severe-faced Hera—sister and wife to Zeus. The peacock at her side has feathers that stand taller than I do. Hesitantly, I run my hand along the smooth, opalescent curves of its body, marveling as the feather's eyes morph from milky white quartz to sapphires and emeralds.

_They are the eyes of Argos, her faithful servant, and they are closely monitoring my every step… _

And normally I would be freaked out by the never-restful guardian, but he senses that I am not a threat, and so neither is he.

_Ad quem venisti. Gaudeo te inveni huc vestri semita. Tu es vere parem perfectum Terpsichore._

I tilt my head back, blinking up at Hera's stone-carved face in surprise.

It's… _her_. I am hearing her thoughts in what I think is Latin, and somehow understanding them in English.

She is pleased that I found my way here, and she believes that I am truly a perfect match for Terpsichore.

_For E_, she tells me.

Next to Hera is a rather serious-eyed Apollo - with his appraising stare and his u-shaped harp, the lyre. His body suggests long lines of active fluidity. As the master choreographer of the routine I saw at the theater weeks ago, he wants to know if I can sing with any more skill than I can dance.

I feel myself flush. The Mentor of the Muses has seen me dance?

Regretful, disappointed, I bow my head to him, because a singing voice is not one of my gifts. The sudden vibration of a mournful, discordant note on his lyre makes me wince, and I move quickly past him - on to majestic Athena, the goddess of wisdom and courage. She is poised in an aggressive stance with her hand on her hip, and her snake - whom she tells me is named Neith - coils around her body almost sensually, both like a lover and like armor. She is skeptical of my painting as a useful skill, but wonders if I might be interested in learning how to aim a bow.

"_Volo honorari_," I whisper disbelievingly. I would be honored to study the arts of skilled defense under her watchful eye.

Ares, the God of War, stands tall and proud next to her, embellished shield at his side. My heart races at his stony gaze, which seems to be a long, slow assessment of my person. He believes that with the proper training, I might become a worthy killer, purely due to the advantage of my vulnerable appearance.

Oh, but I could never. It was devastating enough just to witness my mother's death, knowing I wasn't enough to keep her from wanting to die. In a sense, it made me feel as if I somehow _contributed _to her death.

And… am I wrong to think that - like a supplicant at the gates of heaven - I am right now being judged and sized up and interviewed to determine my worthiness for entrance?

I'm shaking my head, moving swiftly away from Ares, when I hear the sound of metal clanking against metal. It's an airborne owl who screeches as it flies past me, its eyes fierce and unblinking as they meet mine.

_Perseus' pet_, Hestia tells me, _and he's harmless_.

I'm still backing away from the statues, unbelieving of what I am seeing and feeling and hearing, when I abruptly fall backwards, again, over the bristly hide and sturdy bulk-back of a wild boar with angry red eyes. It growls at me menacingly until something unseen draws its attention, and its head cocks in reaction. Then it turns and runs right off the cliff, effortlessly leaping across hundreds of feet over the body of still water, straight into the waterfall… where it disappears without a trace.

_He's to be a part of tonight's dinner fare_, Hestia says with an apologetic tone. _And apparently__ Dionysus calle__d for the pig before you showed up—_

A deep rumble begins shaking the ground, and I stay splayed where I am, as my attention is drawn to the largest statue solidly situated in the middle of the Olympians. The stone cracks along the scepter he holds, a jagged line that begins at the tip where it touches the ground, quickly widening as it approaches the thick, jewel-encrusted heft.

Before I can understand what's happening, the scepter is breaking free of its stone casing, dust and debris cracking, crumbling, crashing down around me as I scramble on outspread hands and feet out of striking range. For long moments, I can't see or breathe through the powder carried in the air, and I cough spasmodically.

"You _dare_ to appear here, mortal?"

The double-timbre voice is fearsome and resonant, striking at me from the inside out, leaving me dazed and trembling. In the heavy, dangerous silence that follows, I slowly uncurl my arms from over my head to see that the scepter is raised above me menacingly.

Glowering down at me is the most beautifully wrathful face I have ever seen, scrambling my wits and stealing my breath. His _how dare you_ eyes glow like liquid silver-blue mercury under thick, slanting brows, and his mouth is drawn into a severe scowl. With his long, flowing white hair and robe, he is a blazing presence from head to toe, a sight almost too bright for me to gaze upon.

Holy everlasting God, it is _Zeus_.

_Deus omnes deos_, my thoughts whisper.

_And E's angry, po__ssessive father._

I sense angered impatience at Zeus' behavior from the now-silent Olympians, but know that they will not… _cannot_... help me now, and the lack of their assistance and camaraderie stings. Was I mistaken in the thought that I was beginning to belong somehow?

Fear and anxiety make my tongue thick; my life may actually depend on it, but there is no way I can possibly speak, even if my throat wasn't dry and scratchy. I don't know why I'm here, but I'm terrified, and wondering if he's going to obliterate me from his landscape.

_E, please help me._

Almost immediately, the sky goes dark as another disturbance from the heavens seems to send the sun behind roiling clouds, casting whatever world this is to gray as a pinpoint of auburn-tinged light shoots straight toward us. The closer it comes, the more I tighten and curl into myself, until I'm just a ball of fear. I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life.

"The Mother of All Fate greets you, God of the Titans and Lord of Justice."

As daunting as the first voice was, the second, which is decidedly female, is even more formidable with its tone of silk shot through with steel. It snaps the attention of the fearsome Zeus away from me at once.

He is nonplussed by the female entity, who seems to carry an aura of golden fire within her being. If Zeus was hard to look upon, she is impossible: I see only the silhouette of a female, and I can't help but curl back into my fetal pose. But I move in such a way that I can keep them both in my sights, peeking up at them through the gaps of my badly-quivering fingers.

But as Zeus grudgingly lowers his scepter, I experience an unexpected sense of benevolence and security…

From _her_. From Ananke, The Mother of All Fate.

Is she here because of _me?_

Like a rush of warm emotion, her voice fills my mind.

_Ecce ego con te nunc, puella perditis. Ecce ego vobiscum sum omnibus iam._

_Lo, I am here for you, Girl of the Lost._ _I am with you all the time._

She_ is _here, for _me_; and suddenly, she is everything, everywhere. I don't understand it, don't even begin to comprehend _why _she would be here for me, but everything tight inside and out unfurls like ribbon, leaving me weak with relief.

And as she bids me to stand, I suddenly comprehend that I am not to cower in front of - nor bow too low in abject supplication - to Zeus.

I can't _not _rise, even when I wish to stay hidden and small as possible against the ground; the compulsion to stand is impossible to ignore. As I slowly do so, I seem to draw from her power… my feelings of fear and insecurity being chipped away, bit by painful bit… until I am body, heart and soul secure in the magnitude of her power, certainty and devotion. For the first time I can remember or even imagine, I feel... as if nothing and no one is going to harm me.

The thrilling rush of relief, joy and gratitude at that has me quivering from the inside out, and I am on the verge of crying through tears. I clench my jaw, pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth to hold them back.

I am dying of thirst; if only—

And suddenly, my mouth is no longer parched, and I can swallow freely.

"Hear me, Ruler of Sky and Thunder, for the Mother of All Fate decrees this daughter's destiny as her own. She, who is fully aware of all that has transpired; she, who would inspire the minds of mortal populations with her creations; she, who is worthy of redemption when weighed upon the scales of those losses and merits."

Zeus seems to straighten more and more as each word is spoken, until he is almost as stiff as the scepter at his side, while the Mother Goddess is all persuasive movement and argument: expansive in her logic, without seeming to implore based solely upon connection or sentiment.

"As there are seven colors around our largest moon of Titan, seven planets of the ancients, and seven heavens above, so shall there be only seven complete cycles of day and shade's night for my Girl of the Lost. _Finem doloris in posterum magis speranda, Domine."_

_There is more hope to be found at the end of grief._

I feel such immediacy of relief at her words that my knees buckle and send me to the ground again.

And this time, I do sob; I bury my face in my hands and let go. The sudden alleviation of the gaping hurt... the awful memories that come without measure... the doubts and fear of it happening again that tore through me like a knife... just suddenly _gone_?

It's too much, it's too much.

A fierce, angry wind whips my hair across my face, and has me raising teary eyes to see that while Zeus may have lowered his scepter in deference, he is far from giving up. All around us, thunder rumbles. Heavy, dark clouds are rising behind him, and I see them roiling and unfurling, then coiling again, as they advance on us like a snake after prey.

"She, a mere mortal of Earth, may be taken and sent at will;  
He, my made Muse, is my son - and hence subject to mine.  
As has ever been, his fate is his father's to determine and distill  
However oft this mortal tempt the Fates re-spin her Moirai line.  
She is not to ensnare or dictate, as womanly whim sees fit;  
He is not meant to fall prey to earthly passion, but to inspire it."

The Mother Goddess lets her fiery colors wane, until she appears before Zeus as a woman… a woman with a cause. Her robe is as white as his, trimmed in gold and topaz stones that match the shades of her hair. Although her head bends slightly and her voice softens as she speaks, I know she is not giving in an inch. The ramrod-straight way she holds herself, her fluid, subtly progressive steps forward—how they languidly eat the space as she moves—her very demeanor suggests a restrained, deadly and patient lioness.

I wipe at my wet face hastily; I must be strong, too.

"Ah," she chides, "would you really curse him so?"

Zeus slams the scepter he holds against the ground sharply, and the now gray emerald grass seems to roll under my feet.

"Above all others, you alone have power to intervene and interfere;  
Mother of All Fate: what is thy reasoning for this _now_? As needs be _here_?_"_

The space between them crackles with blue electricity, and raises the hair on the back of my neck. It's the charged, expectant air just before lightning strikes.

"I ask you this: How many lifetimes must she live to lose the one she loves before it is enough? Is my daughter so unworthy of the Muse of Dance?"

"You claim a new daughter?!" Zeus booms, and the Mother Goddess advances on him. She is half a head shorter than he is, but her stance of easy confidence is such that I do not fear for her.

Instead, I fear for _him. _Zeus seems to be posturing in front of her rather than really trying to intimidate her.

"Allow her to prove her worth, as Psyche did for Eros. She who was _first _a mortal, searching the world for her lost love when he was taken from her. And at his mother's command to perform such impossible tasks, to prove her love or fail, Psyche did succeed. And she was reunited with her lost love.

"Surely you could not demand any more for your son? Will you not show him leniency this time? He has loved and lost the same; I would ask that you not let it become his blameless curse, for no sins have been committed beyond those indulgences which you yourself sought amongst mortals."

Zeus lets loose a thunderbolt that cracks open the ground between where he and the Mother Goddess stand. Gasping, I flinch back.

"As his father is cursed, so should he be!"

"_We_ can remember," she says, in her iron-wrapped-velvet dulcet tone. "We are not forever lost to each other; not if we can stand here like this. Not if we can right that wrong for our children."

He bristles at her tone, and a funnel cloud starts descending from the sky.

But then: "There must be some _equality_," she persuades, her voice gentle as a kiss. For long, long moments, they do nothing but stare into each other's eyes.

The darkness at his back slowly lightens, and the ground's gaping slash somehow knits itself back together… bringing them closer to each other again.

"And so I see how: I have, at the least, won your attention now," he says.

"I can but wish you had not sought these measures; to toy with this mortal's life is beneath you. And for Terpsichore, I beseech you for a different ending."

"You know well what I desire," he growls.

"If that is what your will requires," she counters.

And the wind kicks up again, sending the edges of their robes fluttering wantonly - and then settling familiarly - against each other's.

He takes a step nearer to her, now looming over her; protectively - or threateningly - I can't tell which. Bending close, he wraps a hand around one of her wrists, tugging her closer. "I do not take sacrificial lambs to bed."

"Then take a lioness instead," she says, and presses herself against him.

The charge I sense between them is stunning.

I drop my eyes to my feet in embarrassment. Have they forgotten I am here? Seeing this?

But just before they disappear together, the Mother Goddess turns and addresses me directly.

"Seven days, Girl of the Lost, ere you rise to Olympus and fulfill your destiny beside Terpsichore. So it is now to be written, and so it shall now be yours to fulfill."

_My destiny?_

I take an unsteady breath as they both face me, and the twin focus of their stares makes me stagger back on my feet. His expression is still stern, glowing, his eyes like silver ice. _Ohhh, he doesn't like me, but he likes her more than he doesn't like me…_

It's the first time I've seen her face head-on, and she is fiercely beautiful, all sharp gold and white contrasts. Such pale skin, such dark eyebrows, such a full, wide mouth. Her eyes are cat-like, the pupils a horizontal slit... making her seem sleepy, content. Her expression is open, inviting, not at all full of the outrage I would have imagined at his kind of bargain.

And it's then when I suddenly realize: they _love _each other. That they probably _have _since the beginning of time… and it hasn't waned. And if she loves him… if she loves him like this, and always has... he must be so much more than the relentless ruthless ruler I have seen until now.

Which means, hopefully, that there may be a chance for a future with E, after all.

Her golden head inclines my way, just before she steps into Zeus' waiting arms, and they slowly fade away while gazing into each other's faces.

_Decide your purpose as Muse. Make me proud, Daughter._

**. . .**

I feel a faint tickle of lavender-scented breeze across my face, and my eyes blink open to see a string of pinkish party lights suspended over my head. Beyond that are the sea foam walls of my childhood bedroom. The sun is slanting in from the window, and dust motes dance in the sharp-edged rays that paint the carpet.

I am wide-awake, my body strong and rested as it hasn't been in a long time. I can breathe without the air getting trapped in my throat, and the gaping hole in my stomach—that awful sense of dread caused by the knowledge that I was probably going to lose E again—is just _gone_. I feel as if everything so wrong is finally being put to right.

Because that was not a dream. The idea of mortal me in the midst of all that godlike perfection is not fading from my mind; instead, the images and feelings are only sharpening. Becoming more real with every passing minute.

And I don't have to turn my head, or sweep my hand through the sheets to know that my Muse is not here. My body and heart ache at his absence, but I know that he was called away, because my awakening is something I have to realize, and come to terms with, on my own.

_Make me proud, Daughter._

Mount Olympus is _real_.

And even Zeus capitulates to the power of love.

_The most powerful weapon on earth is the soul on fire… _

E is mine.

And I am his.

All past seven lives inside of me sigh and settle, the harsh, red memories somehow digging less into my heart. It still hurts, but I can breathe better now because we will never lose each again. We will no longer be compelled to forget to remember.

My heart racing, I sit up in bed to hug myself in exhilaration.

Today is the first day of _always_.

The first day of _seven._

The last days of reality to my _unreality_.

I have no idea how to be a Muse, or what may have possessed the Mother Goddess to think I could become one. But she has inspired what she set out to get, and in such a timeless way…

I lose myself to thoughts of what they're doing at this very minute, and flush, because I feel disrespectful thinking about such a thing. But still, I realize with shock and humor, when it comes to sex, a male God is really not much different from a mortal man.

Moving to the dresser where my laptop is, I'm startled at the reflection of a girl with a tangled mess of hair on her head, and I pause. _Mirror, mirror, on the wall: who's the most confused of all?_

Retreating back to my bed, I pull my laptop across my knees. I don't know much about Muses, really, other than that they help to inspire people. And I'm just… me. An accountant who paints on the side.

How on earth am I going to inspire anyone?

Hopefully, Google can help.

**. . .**

Saying goodbye to Dad without it seeming like it's the last time I'll ever be able to say the words, to _hug _him, is surreal and bittersweet. At the back of my mind is my long-awaited destiny, and while it colors my every thought and action now, my heart aches for the loss he'll feel when I'm gone.

_How am I going to be gone? _

_Will I just disappear?_

I can barely talk past the lump in my throat, but I force the words out. "I'm going to send you one of those perpetual motion toys," I say against the fabric of his chest. "Every swinger should have one."

He chuckles. "Smart-alek."

_Don't cry, don't cry. _

"I love you, Dad."

"Love you, too, kiddo," he says with a last squeeze before he lets me go.

As I pass through the gate, I look back and wave at him.

He's all blurry.

**. . .**

United Flight 1007 to LAX is packed. My seatmate, a lady with Little Orphan Annie curls and a Kindle she isn't reading, won't keep quiet.

"He has a marijuana garden, not a real job," she huffs about her son, before we've even taken off. "And he thinks he can take care of a family? Hah!"

She plucks at the seatbelt across her lap and squirms. "God, I hate being confined, don't you?"

I turn my face to the window to smile, but what I really want to do is ask her to be quiet. Doesn't she know I need to _think_?

"The air on these planes always dries my mouth out something horrible. I'm always so _thirsty_ by the time we land. Metal coffins of recycled air is what they are," she grumbles.

I wish we were landing right now.

Or that I could just disappear from here and reappear at home.

_That power is going to come in__ h__andy._

"Where did you say you were from again?" she asks, while the airplane attendant demonstrates how our seats are also flotation devices.

I give in with a sigh. "I didn't, but I'm from—"

And then her chin suddenly kerplunks down on her chest, and I stare at her disbelievingly. I've heard of narcolepsy before, but I've never witnessed it.

_I put her to sleep._

It's E's gentle, mellifluous voice.

In my _mind_.

_She was annoying you. And me._

Startled, I try to stand up from my seat and fall back with a huff, because I'm already seat-belted in.

"Where are you?" I whisper.

_You don't need to whisper. I can hear your thoughts._

You CAN?

Now _I'm_ shifting in my seat, because the thought of _that _is damned uncomfortable. His world is still unknown to me; he can do things I haven't even dreamed of. And some of those things are blazingly terrifying.

You can read my thoughts?!

_Only when we are linked like this._

Linked? Linked like what?

_When our minds are both open to each other. I was thinking of you, and you must have been thinking of me._

?

.

!

_We've done this already. When we made love._

I cough. Fan myself.

I… I thought that was my _imagination_.

_No. That was us, together, communicating as one._

You can HEAR my THOUGHTS.

His silence screams at me.

That's not fair, I tell him.

_It happened when I fell in love with you, and you with me. _

And I am all squishy-mush inside, because this mind-meld thing we have going on seems so intimate. It feels as if he is caressing my mind…

Will this change when I become a Muse?

_Will you be able to keep me out, you mean? No. _

I get the distinct impression that he's hurt at my question, and my stomach takes a dive as the plane takes off.

He's _hurt _that I would want to keep my thoughts secret from him.

_. _

_._

_._

_You cannot hide from me, Bella, _he says._ I told you that before._

I thought you were just angry when you said that, I tell him, and my internal voice sounds like a wail. But you can hide from ME? Because—

_No—_

For hundreds of years, you did.

The thought is fleeting and still reed-thin in tone, but leaves a scar across both of our minds… and my face crumbles at the mushroom explosion of his pain and mine.

_I would never—_

I didn't mean—

—_have left you__ had I__ but known!_

—to say that! To think that!

I feel his hastily-retracted anguish, and I'm sure he senses the way I squash my own into the corner of my mind, trying to stomp it into oblivion.

The _I nevers _slowly, slowly recede, as the _I need yous, I love yous _and the _I'm never going to let you go nows _fill my mind, heart and soul. I am quivering on the inside in relief and longing for him… full-up with his love, and craving the feel of his chest over mine, as I sit strapped in that airline seat.

_I will NEVER hide from you, Bella. _

I let it sink into my bones; it's a welcome balm against my flayed senses, but not good enough to override my horror at the idea of him reading my thoughts, or how easily I can unwittingly hurt him. Obviously, this ability can be a curse, too.

_Your secrets, your darkness, your anger and fear… they will never be a curse to me. I swallow them whole. Give them all to me, __for I crave every facet of who you are._

The truth, the sensation of the feeling behind his words, washes through my soul, and now I'm trembling on the outside, too.

He is making love to my mind.

.

.

.

"Would you like some peanuts?"

Again, the seatbelt keeps me from leaping out of my chair.

"Sorry," the airline attendant whispers to me, thinking that my seatmate is sleeping. "But would you like something to drink?"

"Oh. No, thank you," I say on a gasp.

"Do you think she wants anything?" he whispers, and points at still-oblivious Orphan Annie.

"I, um, don't think you would have enough time to fill all of her wants," I answer.

He looks startled, his mouth curling up, before his face resumes the polite, decorous behavior of an airline attendant pushing soft drinks and party peanuts.

"Well, let me know if you do need something, hun." And then he turns to the other side of the aisle.

_That wasn't very charitable, _E chides gently, and I blush mildly in shame… then go hot at our complete body-heart-soul attachment.

Hush. My servitude doesn't start for another seven days.

.

.

.

E? Why seven days? Why not two? Or eight?

_I am not sure. But we lost each other seven times, so perhaps each life we lost to be together is a day you've earned to say your goodbyes. _

His voice is hollow, desolate as he speaks the words, and I close my eyes tightly as my pain echoes his.

_Never again, Bella._

Never again.

I never have to lose you again.

It's my heart's mantra.

And then I wrap my arms around myself tightly, because I can't quite think of losing Dad, or Alice, either.

So instead of trying to face that unreality, I turn to another… and try to imagine what life might be like as a Muse myself. What my purpose should be.

_You already know who you want to be, Bella._

I do?

_Don't you?_

My heart is suddenly pounding in excited fear.

How do you know what kind of Muse I want to be?

_Because I know you._

The tone of his voice is especially mellifluous now, and it curls around inside me in the best, most wicked kind of way.

_Believe in yourself like I do, Bella. You won't make a mistake… I am here to be with you, and I will help by guiding you. _

I shatter oh-so-gently.

Every double-timbre syllable he sends into my mind embraces my heart, surrounds my senses, permeating me to the bone. He's close, so close, my name in his every word, as he brokenly whispers a final promise.

_I will always be your Muse, my love._


End file.
